


I'm Going With You

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Omega Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 17:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2475968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is an alpha whose family has decided that it is time to marry. Unfortunately John is not particularly thrilled by this plan. After nearly proposing to a family friend John stumbles across an omega desperate to get back to his childhood home. Out of chivalry (and intense boredom) John agrees to smuggle the omega out of London and get him safely to Bristol. However Sherlock Holmes is hardly the retiring sort of omega and mischief ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Just a couple of quick things:
> 
> First and most important I'm really sorry if I got the alpha/omega aspects of the story wrong. I really only made them alpha or omega because it was the only way I could think of to make the plot work without making one of them a girl.
> 
> January 25 edit: this work is based off of The Corinthian by Georette Heyer and borrows from the book a lot. Also sorry for any historical inaccuracies.
> 
> And I realized I hadn't said this before so: Thank you to everyone who has ever left a kudos or comment on any of my work. I adore every single one of them and it means so much to me. :)

        Harriet Thatcher was a petite woman whose mouth had a particularly stubborn set to it. She was widely known as Hurricane Harriet because she was generally held to be a force to be reckoned with. She had a firm sense of self, an almost unhealthy certainty that she was right, and a controlling nature. Things went the way Hurricane Harriet imagined them going in her mind or someone else was at fault for their failure. Despite this she did possess a generally good heart and, for those she deigned to care about, she cared fiercely.

        Some were stunned to find out that Hurricane Harriet was married to Albert Thatcher. Others thought it made perfect sense. After all Albert was a weak-willed man who generally preferred instruction over making his own decisions. He had married an intelligent woman and happily handed over control of his estates to her. There was no love lost between the couple but they had a happy marriage that was based primarily on a relationship they referred to as friendship. Although one could argue with their definition if one so chose.

        Harriet sat beside her mother in the pristine drawing room with her mouth tightly pinched. She was rather irrationally furious with her brother for not being home. It would have been no use reminding Harriet that her brother had not been aware of her impending arrival. As Harriet had informed Albert when he had tried pointing this out, John should have  _known_ her intentions. Impatiently she tapped her fingers against the arm of the sofa as she fumed over her brother’s absence.

        Josephine Watson agreed with her daughter’s opinion and thought it rude of John to be out when they called. She was not as furious as Harriet, mostly because Harriet hadn’t told her to be. Once a hurricane of her own, a brush with pneumonia had caused Josephine to become obsessed with her healthy. Primarily the downfall of her health. She was every bit as stubborn as her daughter but now she tended to let Harriet tell her what she needed to be concerned over. It freed so much room for doctor visits.

        Albert meanwhile glanced uncomfortably at the mantle place clock for the sixth time in two minutes. He was uncomfortably aware that they had been waiting on John’s return for over half an hour. Even if, as Harriet insisted, it didn’t matter because John was family Albert didn’t like it. John was a grown man, this was his own home, and it wasn’t right to attack a man in his own home. Besides all that Thompson was disapproving and Thompson was a superb butler and not someone whose bad side Albert wanted anywhere near.

        Finally they heard the front door open and Harriet quickly stood and strode over to the drawing room door. Albert protested but Harriet waved his concerns away impatiently as she listened carefully. Thompson said, “You have visitors, sir.”

        “Do I? I don’t suppose it’s anyone I particularly wish to see,” drawled John.

        “I couldn’t say, sir.”

        “Family then. D’you think you could convince them I came home ill and am currently on my deathbed?” John asked, knowing Harriet would be listening.

        Thompson’s face nor voice betrayed emotion as he said, “I find it unlikely, sir.”

        “Hmm,” John murmured distractedly. “Best gird my loins and face the beasts then, haven’t I?”

        “John Watson!”

        John grinned irrepressibly at Thompson and called, “I’m shocked – truly stunned – at how long it took you to interrupt, dear sister.” Harriet made an unladylike noise and shut the door loudly. “Ah. I’ve upset her. I think we should probably serve tea on the good china, Thompson.”

        “She did not wish for tea, sir,” Thompson said blandly.

        “She hardly knows what she says she’s so annoyed with me. Best bring the tea to soothe her irritation.”

        When John entered the drawing room he was unsurprised to find his mother and brother-in-law there too. He smiled cheerfully and said, “Hello Albert.” He bent to kiss his mother’s cheek and said, “Mamma. You look lovely today.”

        “Don’t be smart,” chided Josephine. “Where have you been John? We’ve been waiting on you for ages.”

        “Well, if I had known you were waiting for me I would have changed my plans.”

        “So you wouldn’t come home I’m sure,” said Harriet sharply. John smiled and bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I don’t have time for your nonsense today. We’ve come to discuss your marriage.”

        “Have you? Must be a dull topic considering there isn’t even a potential spouse.”

        “That’s exactly why we’re here. It’s time for you to marry.”

        “You need to set up your nursery,” Josephine cried. “Don’t you want me to be alive to see my grandchildren?”

        “It is my sincerest wish. I’m certain that, provided that blessed event occurs in the next twenty or so years, you will be there.”

        “How can you say that? You  _know_ that my health is tremulous now. I could very well drop dead tomorrow.”

        “Shudder the thought,” John said blandly. He was far too used to this type of threat to be affected.

        “You’re laughing at me,” said Josephine shrewdly. “It’s must be terribly amusing for you to think about my death. Then you won’t have to worry about your bothersome mother anymore. I’m certain that last week when I was  _moments_ from death you were thrilled. It was only through the grace of lovely Dr. Hardy that I managed to survive.”

        “Mamma, you know I’m in a state of constant worry over your health,” John chided softly.

        Josephine looked up at him with watery eyes, held out her hand to him, and smiled, “I know. You’ve always been such a good boy, John.”

        John clasped her hand briefly, glancing, with a twinkle in his eye, at his sister trembling with frustration. He moved away from his mother and focused on Harriet, smiling blandly and said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand why you’re so very concerned about my producing an heir. I have been informed by more than one reliable source that I am still reasonably young.”

        “You are thirty,” Harriet interrupted. “It would be one thing if you were in the habit of falling in love often or if you were used to doing something useful with your life. You don’t though. You’ve become a wastrel.”

        “Have I?” John asked, looking up from his contemplation of his boots, startled. “I begin to see why you came today. Have people been whispering about my misdeeds? Now Harry you shouldn’t listen to those. That story about Lydia Harper was exaggerated to”-

        “John! You shouldn’t say things like that to omega ladies.”

        Harriet’s mouth pinched even more tightly and she clasped her hands together. She loathed having her female omega status used against her that way. Omega females were about as low down as a person could get. They were weak, delicate, often dim creatures; good for nothing more than breeding. This view was one of the reasons Harriet had married Albert Thatcher instead of accepting her brother’s offer of supporting her. Harriet could have lived on her brother’s coattails and he would have been fine with it, but she would have been a social pariah. Harriet enjoyed socialising far too much to tolerate that.

        Albert was nice because Albert didn’t want to run his estates and was thrilled his wife did. It didn’t matter to him that his wife was a female omega. The other reason Harriet had chosen to marry Albert was his propensity to have affairs. Albert had more affairs than John cared to count and that suited Harriet very well because she had affairs of her own. Harriet was unique in that she preferred the company of other female omegas. Since this happened to be illegal Harriet used Albert as her screen even as Harriet loved her female omega maid fiercely.

        Josephine had never fully understood her daughter’s dislike of using her status. It never seemed to bother Josephine to use her own female omega status in devious ways. John admitted that his mother was clever, but he didn’t like perpetuating the absurdities any more than Harriet did. He had grown up watching his sister struggle against the rules for female omegas to be herself and he had seen it nearly break her. Still saw the way it wore her down, saw the danger in the anger.

        Harriet sighed and made a visible effort to restrain herself from snapping at her mother. Clara’s influence, thought John. Then Harriet said primly, “Mary Morstan.”

        John blinked slowly as he tried to understand why that particular name was being brought up. When he failed to come to a logical conclusion he raised his brows at his sister. “I’m so sorry but I’m being rather stupid today. It’s probably the same reason I wasn’t here to greet you for your impromptu visit. Why are you mentioning Mary?”

        “Don’t play-act at being stupid!”

        “I don’t have to play-act. Albert you look particularly uncomfortable. Should I offer you something strong to drink? It’s just that you don’t usually drink.”

        “No. I don’t want a drink. But you have to know that this wasn’t  _my_ idea,” Albert said boldly. “I told Harriet that it wasn’t right to attack a man in his own house. I said, ‘Harriet you can’t just go barging into a man’s home and tell him something like this. Marrying Mary Morstan? It’s enough to give anyone a nasty shock’. That’s exactly what I told her, isn’t it dear? She wouldn’t have a word of it though. She and your mother insisted that it was fine to invade your home.”

        “Invade?” Josephine repeated in dangerous accents. “Invade?! As though I’m some… some vagabond wandering in off the streets! I’ll have you know Albert Thatcher that this was my home long before it was John’s home. It would still  _be_  my home if my dear George hadn’t died.”

        “But he did die,” Albert pointed out reasonably. Josephine cried out and dabbed at her eyes delicately. “Well, I’m sorry to say it, Mamma Watson but it’s the truth. The house does belong to John now and you don’t live here anymore.”

        “I never thought,” Josephine said thickly, “that I would live to see the day when I wouldn’t be welcome in my own child’s home. The home that I came to as a bride, in fact. I suppose that’s what the world is coming to though. There’s just not enough room for female omegas anymore once they reach a Certain Age.”

        John regarded his mother with vague amusement. “There, there Mamma. Don’t listen to Albert. You know he can’t help saying the stupidest things at times. Just the other day he was telling me that Charlie’s bays were top of the line. A malicious lie if ever I heard one.” Albert spluttered indignantly and Harriet looked up as though asking the Lord for strength. “You’re more than welcome to move back, if you choose.”

        “No, no. I wouldn’t dream of impositioning you!” Josephine insisted, having wasted little time in setting up her own establishment in a more fashionable part of town with a less drafty house when her husband had died. She held out her hand and gave John a watery smile as she said, “ _Such_  a good son.”

        John took her hand obligingly and placed a gallant kiss on it. Harriet growled, “We’ve gotten off topic.” John raised his eyebrows in question. “Everyone knows that you and Mary Morstan are very nearly engaged.”

        “I haven’t spoken to her in at least a year,” John objected.

        “Which only proves that you have deplorable manners,” Harriet said sternly. “You and Mary have had an informal arrangement since you were infants. As I said it would be one thing if you or Mary were inclined to fall in love easily but the fact is that you aren’t. You’re not getting younger so you may as well marry and provide an heir for the family name.”

        “Is that Mary’s interest in marrying me?” John asked blandly. “Assisting the Watson name in carrying on? How noble of her. I thought it had more to do with my money.”

        “That’s exactly what I said!” Albert cried. “I can’t see why Harriet is so insistent on having the Morstan’s become family. They don’t have much to recommend ‘em. If you marry that one then you’ll have piles of debt and terrible dinner partners.”

        “Unfair, Albert. I know for a fact that Tom has amused me at dinner once. He told a very entertaining joke.” John said with the air of one chastising. Albert grinned at John’s nonsense.

        Harriet scowled at her elder brother and sucked in an offended breath. John decided that he had truly upset her and tried his best to look repentant. Unfortunately Harriet knew him too well for that. “There’s nothing wrong with Mary, even if the rest of the family has become a bit unseemly.” Harriet said. Her words were spoken carefully, as though she had picked them out earlier and was considering the best way to show them off.

        “She won’t cause a fuss,” she continued, “and she won’t disrupt you’re life. She won’t expect you to fall in love with her or to be forever hanging about her. Indiscretions will be overlooked”-

        “Because she’ll be too busy overseeing her indiscretions?”

        “John!” Josephine said, scandalized. “Mary is too good a girl to do something like  _that_. Her brothers may be good-for-nothing’s but she would never do anything so crass.”

        This from the woman who had enjoyed her own share of indiscretions. John still did not understand the relationship his parents had shared. He knew that they had loved one another but also that they had both been indiscreet. It had never seemed to bother them or put a strain on their marriage. Apparently having affairs was one thing but  _talking_ about having affairs was another thing entirely.

        Harriet ignored her mother and said, “If there was someone else then that would be a different matter. If you had come to care about someone else then I wouldn’t say another word about Mary. Can you tell me that, John?”

        John’s mouth quirked and he asked, “How could I? Everyone’s only after my fortune or my name.”

        Harriet paused and studied her brother closely at these words. Josephine bemusedly asked, “What  _else_  would they be after?”

        John stared at her inscrutably for a moment then grinned at her affectionately. “Quite right, Mamma. If I promise to consider the matter will you leave?”

        “We  _are_ here uninvited,” muttered Albert mutinously. He flushed an ugly red when Harriet glared at him.

        Harriet stood up though and sighed, “I suppose it is too much to hope that you will  _actually_ consider the matter?”

        “Not at all, Harry,” he said charitably. “After all hope, even when horribly misguided, is the spirit of life.”

        Harry’s mouth pinched up again and Josephine, once again proving her morals to be too skewed to properly be measured, said, “Is it? I always thought it was much more indecent.”

        “Good-bye Mamma,” John said jovially.

        Harry gave him a look as she left the room. Albert paused and said, “Sorry about all this. I tried to dissuade them…”

        “I’m sure you fought valiantly for my honour, Albert. Good-bye.”

        Once they were gone John stood by the door, staring unseeingly at the opposite wall for many minutes. Thompson eventually entered with brandy on a tray. John blinked and said, “You didn’t bring my guests the tea I requested.”

        “No. I know Mrs. Thatcher well enough not to attempt that,” he answered blandly. John smiled faintly in response. “Should I take this to the library?” Thompson prompted.

        “Not at all. Set it there please. You may as well tell Walters to prepare proper clothes for visiting.”

        “Yes, sir.”

        John made himself comfortable on the settee and poured a glass of brandy. He spent the next twenty minutes staring into it rather than actually drinking. He was immeasurably bored and had been for… as long as he could remember. As the only alpha in the Watson family it was up to him to continue the family name. If he didn’t then the bulk of the fortune and property defaulted to a distant cousin. It was part of a nearly medieval legality of the Watson family that John was having a damnable time trying to correct.

        John had more money than he knew what to do with, had inherited young, and the only things he had ever really wanted to do had always been denied him. Family duty came first. Marriage probably wouldn’t help his ennui but he doubted it would hurt it.

 


	2. Chapter Two

        The Morstan family were on the brink of ruin. This was not exactly news, or terribly surprising, to the _ton_. After all the Morstan family had been on the brink of ruin for nearly two decades. The interesting piece of news was how close to ruin they were now as opposed to all the years leading up to this particular moment. Thus far the family had managed to hush up how much closer devastation was but it was only a matter of time before it was spread through their circles.

        Sir Robert Morstan had been a very well-liked youth. He had always been able to hit upon the exactly right idea to make a party interesting. He was an amiable drunk, a terrible card player but a philosophical loser, always knew where the best light-skirts were, and had more money than he knew what to do with. He had inherited young and promptly become a rascal, but a terribly likable rascal.

        Maria Smyth had married Sir Robert and he had cleaned up his act a bit. He still drank too much too often and spent more of his money than his solicitor would have liked. But under Lady Morstan’s influence he managed to find respectable ways to increase his income. Their first two children were male alphas and the third was a female omega. Everyone agreed this was completely expected of Lady Morstan, who always knew her duty.

        Then she died of consumption whilst her daughter was a baby. Sir Robert did not have much depth of feeling about anything but he was upset by his wife’s passing. However he promptly remarried to provide a mother for his children. Emily Reynolds was a prim, duty-oriented, Christian woman who was generally held to be inferior to the late Lady Morstan. This was confirmed for nearly everyone when the new Lady Morstan failed to breed.

        Michael and Tom Morstan ended up inheriting every disreputable characteristic of their father with few of the good characteristics. Both enjoyed drink and were terrible gamblers. Michael had a short-temper, which Sir Robert had developed in his middle-age, and a poor sense of humor, which no one knew where it came from. Tom was generally better liked, with a more philosophical view of losing and a better sense humor, but he was also leech. Even this was difficult to hate him for when he was so delightfully aware of his faults.

        Miss Mary Morstan had been more under the tutelage of her step-mother. As a result it was said, often regretfully, that Miss Morstan took after the new Lady Morstan rather the late Lady Morstan. To make matters worse Miss Morstan disapproved of drink and gambling. She would never dream of telling an alpha not to participate in those endeavors but she had no difficulty explaining to omegas why it was unsavory. Not particularly something one wishes to hear at a ball.

        George Watson had been good friends with Sir Robert in their youth. Their friendship had lessened as the years passed and Sir Robert continued to act the same as he had at twenty-two. When Mary Morstan was born it was agreed that one day they would arrange a marriage between her and John. After the late Lady Morstan died Mr. Watson never made the arrangement permanent, as Sir Robert spiraled into a life of vice and then Mr. Watson passed away. Josephine still favored the match since she doted on Mary, to everyone’s bemusement.

        John had avoided spending too much time in Michael or Tom’s company. Even at a young age it had been obvious that they were not quite good _ton_. The fact that neither one minded holding out their hand for a bit of help money-wise, based on the past relationship between their respective fathers, did not help matters. John had not seen much of Mary growing up, since the new Lady Morstan disapproved of alphas and omegas mixing overmuch. When Mary had her come-out John did his duty until he was satisfied that she was finding her way. Then he almost never saw her again.

        Most people liked to say that the reason Mary Morstan hadn’t married at the age of twenty-six was because of the arrangement between the Morstan’s and the Watson’s. Most people loved to whisper about the real reason being because she was a cold fish. No one believed that John would actually marry Mary Morstan. Of course each season that passed where John did not fall in love in the _slightest_ more people thought he would live his life as a confirmed bachelor. People tutted over his lack of family duty whilst their attempts to entice him with a personally favored omega failed.

        Harriet was right in that John had never fallen in love. He had been tempted once when he had been very young until he had discovered the omega explaining to friends what John’s worth was. Namely, his fortune. Since that time John has watched cynically as omega after omega has been offered to him because they desire his fortune or his family’s name. This is not a particularly shocking occurrence in the _ton_ but John was rather hoping for more from his life mate.

        As, not only the first-born but the only, alpha in his family John was not allowed to join the military. If John had had younger alpha siblings then he might have been allowed to join. If John had been the younger alpha then he could have studied medicine. Unfortunately neither of these options had been available to him. John had seen enough of his sister’s struggles to know better than to complain. He still had other options, even if his preferred were denied him. Sometimes it was difficult to remember when he was bored and miserable, but he always managed to. After all people respected him without knowing him purely because he was an alpha.

         John wasn’t particularly disappointed when he found out that Sir Robert wasn’t at home. In all honesty he didn’t care about the marriage or when it took place one way or the other. Still when the butler informed him that Miss Morstan was available John felt he should see her. Mary was standing when he entered the room, she smiled and held out her hand for him. He accepted it and said, “How lovely you look today, Mary.”

        “Thank you,” she replied dismissively. Mary did not seem to think his comment had been given sincerely, so didn’t deserve a better response. John wondered what she would have thought had she known that he honestly thought she looked lovely. Probably she would have been a little alarmed he hadn’t been merely polite. “Papa will be disappointed he wasn’t in to see you. He’s been expecting you.”

        John raised his brows and said, only slightly stiffly, “Has he? If I had known I assure you I would have come much sooner. Has he been waiting on me long?”

        Mary paused and gave him a penetrating look before she said, “Of course not. The arrangement between our families has been informally set for ages. And Harriet has mentioned that you’re more eager to settle down.”

        “That explains it then,” John said leaning carelessly against the fireplace mantel. He looked at her curiously and asked, “What are your feelings on the arrangements?”

        Mary blinked, clearly not expecting such an odd question, then said, “It’s for the best. We both have the same ideals on how a marriage should be handled.”

        “Do we?”

        “Of course. Neither of us have any illusions about the subject. Honestly John, I’m not some simpering miss. I know what roles we will play in each other’s life.”

        John smiled thinly and asked, “What of love, Mary?”

        Mary laughed, seemingly delighted by John’s wit. “Don’t be absurd, John. As though anyone of any sense of our class would desire love. No. I have known since I was a child that whomever I married it would be a marriage arranged with a cool mind and practical considerations. That’s the type of marriage I, and I’m certain you, want.” John studied the shine on his Hessians and did not reply, so Mary continued, “It’s one of the reasons marriage to you is so agreeable. We are both entering this sacred binding for solid and practical reasons. I must admit that I’ve been concerned in the past about your… slightly frivolous attitude. However, as Mama has pointed out, having a family to worry about will cure you of that.”

        John smiled at his boots and murmured, “Do you think so?” Then he looked up and asked politely, “How is your mother? I assumed she would be joining us.”

        Mary smiled at him in such a way that John thought she was rather proud of him for remembering his manners. She answered, “Mama is doing very well, thank you.” She sobered quickly though and said seriously, “We discussed the matter and she decided that since were are nearly engaged it wouldn’t be inappropriate to leave us alone for a few minutes. Provided the door remained open, of course.”

        “Of course. Well I wouldn’t want to overstep the boundaries of propriety. I believe I will take my leave of you.”

        “Oh,” said Mary, surprised by the abrupt shift in John’s attitude. “Yes. I’ll be sure to let Papa know that you desire to meet with him. You’ll be back tomorrow surely…?”

        John hesitated briefly before taking Mary’s hand and saying, “Yes. Good day, my dear.”

        John left the drawing room with a heaviness settling in his stomach. His meeting with Mary had not calmed his reservations about the union. However it was too late do anything about it now. He had as good as engaged himself to Mary. Absconding now would still be socially acceptable but… it would make him an undeniable rascal. Despite his sister using that title for him already, John actually did not desire polite society to apply it to him. Marriage to Mary would not be a bad thing exactly. If he were any other gentleman then her views regarding the matter would be most welcome.

        So lost in thought was John that he was rather surprised when he was walking past a hall cupboard and a body tumbled out of it. The stocky body of Tom Morstan laid at his feet as he grinned up at him in a friendly manner. “John!” Tom cried. “Thank god it’s you.”

        “Who did you expect it to be? And, forgive me the impertinence, why were you in the cupboard?” John asked mildly, as he watched the younger man pull himself to his feet.

        “I jumped in when I heard your footsteps. I thought you might be Michael, you see, so naturally I had to hide,” Tom explained patiently. “I owe him a bit of money – practically nothing actually. You’d think I owed him a small fortune by the way he’s been dunning me! I swear, Johnny boy, Michael should have been born a beta. He would have made an ideal cent per cent. Can you imagine harassing _family_ over such a trivial matter? I can’t think why he’s still talking about it because I haven’t a feather to fly with!”

        “Do you need a loan, Tom?” John asked amiably. It would hardly have been the first time John had loaned either Tom or Michael money. Although ‘loan’ was perhaps too strong a word since John never saw any of it returned. Nor, in fact, expected it. The fact that the connection was soon to be closer compelled John to offer the money rather than wait for Tom to be forced to come for help.

        “What? No! ‘Course not. I’m not that far gone yet. It’s only _Michael_ , it ain’t like a _real_ debtor is after me. – Well, what I mean is of course real debtors are after me – aren’t they always? – but none with any real vigor in ‘em yet. Probably because they all think you’re soon to join the family.” Tom laughed merrily at the idea and cried, “Can you imagine? What are you doing here anyway?”

        “Providing you with laughing material,” John observed.

        Tom sobered instantly and stared at John in shock. “No! Tell me you didn’t come to propose to _Mary_.”

        John nodded and said apologetically, “I did. Although Sir Robert was out today. However I was able to see your sister and say hello.”

        “Thank God for that! Listen to me Johnny boy,” said Tom earnestly, “I’ve always liked you even though you’re a bit stupid. I mean you did me a good turn when I ran into trouble last year with my creditors. Although, like I told you then, it don’t make sense to pay off the whole debt when you can pay off enough to keep ‘em quiet. Then you have a little left over for yourself. But! that’s another discussion. The point is that you’ve always been a real good friend so listen to me closely. Run.”

        “That doesn’t seem like a very brotherly thing to say.”

        Tom blinked then frowned, “Mary hates me. She thinks I’m irresponsible and disreputable. I think she’s a spinster and a bore. What has this to do with anything?” Tom gave him an exasperated look, clearly irritated that John wasn’t catching the main point. “Don’t tie yourself to the family, Johnny boy. Mary ain’t worth it. If you do then you won’t ever be rid of my father or Michael or even me. I’m not too proud to admit that I’ll hang on your coattails. You’ll constantly be paying our debts and getting involved in our scrapes. And for what? A nag for a wife? Don’t do it. Run.”

        “You shouldn’t talk about your sister that way,” John chastised. “She’s a good girl.” Tom sighed and shook his head, clearly deciding there was no hope for his friend. John considered the younger man and asked, “Tom? If I offered to buy your colours would you accept?”

        Tom grinned irrepressibly and said, “Why would I when you’re here to pay my debts?” John smiled because at least Tom was likable for a ne’er-do-well. “I have thought about it, mind you. When I was particularly in dun territory, but then I usually have a drink and think better of the matter.” Tom’s face lit up suddenly and he cried, “That’s what you need! Have a nice drink and think better of this Mary business then run. Run far away from us Morstan’s.”

        “As ever you are a fount of good advice, Tom. Better hide I believe I hear footsteps.” John chuckled to himself as his friend dove into the cupboard again.


	3. Chapter Three

        That evening John went to his club to play a few hands of cards with friends. He tried not to gamble too often because he knew that he enjoyed it a bit more than he should, and he had seen the ruin that could cause. Some people thought this was foolish of him because in general he had good luck at cards. On this particular night John tended to agree with those people so the stakes were high and the drink flowed more freely than most nights. John had been sat at a table steadily drinking and winning for several hours before his brother-in-law found him.

        When Albert joined the table he glanced wearily at John’s drink even though John seemed sober enough. Albert knew how well John could hold his drink though and knew it was entirely possible John was completely foxed. Quietly Albert said, “I heard you went to the Morstan house after our visit.”

        John grinned, “I did. It was very illuminating. You should have been there, Albert! You would have hated every minute of it.”

        Albert flushed, “I’m sure that’s not true. Miss Morstan is a very lovely girl.”

        “No,” John interrupted. “I don’t think she likes to be called lovely. You’ll have to describe her a different way. I have been assured that she possesses many amiable qualities so this shouldn’t be a hardship for you. Damn it, Albert! I lost that hand because of you. You’ve always been a terrible luck charm for me.”

        Offended Albert snapped, “That’s why I’ve always enjoyed playing opposite you.”

        John laughed at the set-down cheerfully. Captain Murray, an old friend of John’s, said, “You’re not really thinking of marrying Mary Morstan, are you?”

        Lieutenant Marshall, an old friend of Captain Murray’s, shuddered, “Miss Morstan by herself wouldn’t be so bad, you know. It’s that family of hers that makes alphas uneasy. Who wants to have to support three alphas? Lord knows how long Sir Robert will live for. It’s always the ones who don’t do anything but cause problems that live the longest.”

        “Tom’s not so bad,” John defended, feeling rather affectionate towards the man after their afternoon chat.

        “For a _friend_ ,” Albert conceded. “He’ll be your family if you marry Miss Morstan though.”

        “He wouldn’t be so bad as family either. Besides the arrangement has been set for years. My father never got around to making it formal is all. Now don’t, no really, Albert, _don’t_ look so piteous. It’s really not the end of the world.”

        “If you don’t mind my asking,” said Lt. Marshall curiously, “do you prefer female omegas over male omegas? Most families don’t like arranged marriages until a preference is known.”

        John grinned at her and said, “I don’t have a preference over female or male. I don’t even have preference over omega or beta.”

        Lt. Marshall raised her brows and said, “Well, you can’t marry a beta, can you?”

        “No. Fortunately Miss Morstan isn’t a beta. She’s an omega and there are papers for centuries proving her ancestors were alphas or omegas. I imagine she’ll want to see my papers concerning the same. No, no that’s not true. Sir Robert has already seen them. He and my father had competitions over whose papers went back the farthest. Albert you are genuinely _horrible_ luck.”

        “Tom’s telling everyone that he told you not to marry Miss Morstan,” Albert said, disregarding almost everything else that had been said. “He’s saying that he thinks too much of you to let you marry into the family without knowing the facts.”

        “Ignorant fool,” John muttered to his cards.

        “How much have you had to drink, John?” Albert asked anxiously.

        John sent him a mocking look and said, “Why? Don’t you believe I’m capable of holding my liquor? Or do you believe me to be some young alpha too green to know his own limit?”

        Albert was a little startled to see John bare his teeth. Not graphically or terribly aggressively, but enough to let Albert know that John was more foxed than Albert had originally thought. “Er, no. I was curious.”

        “I’m fine, Albert. You worry too much. Here, have a drink of this. It’ll soothe you.”

        The gambling went on and John and his tablemates continued drinking, although John more than the other three. However John managed to keep control of himself and give the appearance of having drunk much less than he actually had. Albert had drunk enough whilst they played he was able to ignore John’s state.

        Finally John stood and said, “It’s been a pleasure, but it’s time I made my way home.”

        Albert jerked in his seat and looked up, a little foggily, and said, “What? Already? Wait, wait I’ll ride with you”-

        “Don’t be daft, Albert. I’ll be perfectly fine.” John said soothingly. He offered the small group a charming smile before leaving.

        In the entrance the porter said, “Shall I call for your carriage, Mr. Watson?”

        “No. Not at all. I think I’ll walk. It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”

        “Er, yes,” the porter said dubiously. “Would you like me to send your carriage home, sir?”

        “Yes, thank you.”

        “Sir, you live in the opposite direction.” The porter called after, wondering if he should insist a bit more strongly on calling a carriage. Mr. Watson had always been a fine gentleman so it would be a shame if something happened to him.

        “I am aware. But it is a lovely night, we agreed, if you’ll recall. May as well enjoy it, don’t you think?”

        “Oh. Yes, of course.” John chose to ignore the amusement in the porter’s voice as he made his way down the street.

        Away from people John gave into his inebriation a bit, humming under his breath. The brisk air was clearing his head better than he had expected. Although he realised it probably hadn’t been the best idea to walk in the opposite direction of his house. He knew his way quite well but he also knew it would be a long walk. It had seemed like a good idea, a long walk, at his club but now it seemed a nuisance.

        During his walk he looked across the street and saw something rather peculiar. He stopped to watch as a figure wiggled on a line of white bed linens hanging from a first floor window. It seemed that the figure had misestimated the length of linens needed – no, the linens had gotten tangled. Either way the makeshift rope wasn’t long enough for the figure to reach the walkway.

        John watched it wriggle for a moment before making his way over. He stood underneath and said politely, “Hello there.”

        The face that peered down at him belonged to a very young alpha. John guessed that he couldn’t be older than twelve, even if he did seem a bit tall. “What are you doing here? No, doesn’t matter. I can’t quite reach the ground.”

        “I can see that. Your linens are tangled there.”

        “Obviously. Help me.”

        “Why are you climbing out of a window on linens? How do I know you aren’t a burglar?”

        “If I were a burglar why would I ask for your help?”

        “Perhaps you’re going to kill me.”

        The young alpha scoffed, “I would never kill someone in such an ordinary way.”

        John raised his brows and asked, “How would you kill someone?”

        “Help me down and I’ll tell you.”

        John shrugged but did as told. Once the urchin had ended up in John’s arms he caught a whiff of the scent. John blinked in surprise and said, “You’re an omega.” The boy jerked out of his arms and John continued, “Bit older than twelve too.”

        “You’re foxed.”

        “No. A trifled disguised is all. What is an omega doing sneaking out of the house? Is this your house? Did we decide on whether you were a thief or not?”

        The omega hissed, “Shh! Do you have to be so bloody loud?”

        John ignored this and asked, “Why are you wearing alpha clothes? Where did you get them? They’re too big and your cravat is disgraceful. Your scent is wrong too.”

        “The clothes belong to my cousin and he’s fat,” he grumbled. “This is my aunt and uncle’s house and I live here. I’m hardly going to steal from the place I live. Thank you for your assistance. Good-bye.”

        “No, wait. What’s an omega doing sneaking out of his house? And why is your scent wrong?”

        “None of your business.”

        “It is my business unless you want me to wake up Aunt and Uncle.”

        “Why do you care?”

        “Well I haven’t got anything else to care about, have I?”

        The omega stared at John for a few minutes before he said, “I’m going to my ancestral home. My aunt and uncle want me to marry my cousin but he’s stupid. He doesn’t even want to marry me, he just wants my money. I’m fabulously wealthy and they want it. For some reason they think that I have to marry my cousin in order for them to get it. Even though I’ve _offered_ to just give it to him. That just made my aunt irrationally angry.”

        John coughed to cover a laugh and said, “Well you have to admit… it’s a bit, er, crass.”

        The omega blinked as though this idea had never occurred to him before. Then he said, “Yes, well I refuse to marry Humphry. He’s incapable of carrying on a logical conversation. All he cares about are his damnable horses, who hate him by the way, and convincing the world that he’s a dandy. He has fish lips.”

        “Does he? Well no one can be expected to marry someone with fish lips. But what are you going to do once you get to your ancestral home?”

        “Marry Victor, obviously.”

        “Obviously. Who is Victor?”

        “Victor Trevor. He was my neighbor growing up. When we were younger we made a pact that we would marry when we were older. So you see, all I have to do is go home and marry Victor and I won’t have to worry about Aunt Helena pecking at me to marry Humphry.”

        “Well that’s lovely, isn’t it? How did you manage to change your scent? Where did an omega find a perfume that changes a scent? It’s not strong enough by the way. You smell too much like an omega still.”

        “I made it myself,” said the omega haughtily. Then he frowned and murmured, “It must not have been strong enough. I _knew_ I needed more witch hazel.”

        “You mixed it yourself? That’s clever of you,” John said in awe. The omega blinked then regarded John suspiciously at the praise. John didn’t blame him. He couldn’t imagine anyone praising an omega for doing something like that. It was impressive though. John considered himself rather clever when it came to medicine but he knew he lacked the skill to create a scent changing mix. “Where is your ancestral home?”

        “Bristol.”

        “Bristol? I cannot continue this conversation here. It’s too much to expect of anyone. Come along.” John set off in the direction of his home, confident that the omega would follow him. Mostly because John, although he wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, was carrying the omega’s belongings. Over his shoulder he offered, “I’m John Watson, by the way.”

        “John Watson?” The omega repeated. Then he hurried to catch up to John and told him, “You’re a crack shot. You once extinguished thirteen candles in a chandelier with twelve bullets.”

        “Is that what they say? Well that just goes to show that you can’t trust people nowadays. It’s ridiculous. Who ever heard of a chandelier with thirteen candles? “

        “You extinguished the entire chandelier?”

        “Of course I did. What would that have proved to have left a few candles lit?”

        “You extinguished two candles with one bullet? Will you show me?”

        John glanced at him and asked, “Are you asking me for a demonstration or a lesson?”

        “Both.”

        “I thought you were on your way to Bristol.”

        “Well not now, obviously. I can always look you up once I’m married though.”

        “Can you? What is your name, ragamuffin?”

        “I take offence to that term.”

        “Your offence is noted. Your name…?”

        “Sherlock Holmes.”

        “Lovely name. How old are you, Mr. Holmes?”

        “Sherlock, please. And I’m twenty.”

        John raised his brows and asked, “How do you expect to marry while you’re underage? In addition to the three weeks it takes to read the Banns?”

        Sherlock rolled his eyes and said haughtily, “Once I’m _home_ Aunt Helena and Uncle Horace won’t be able to do anything to me anyway. The Trevor’s wouldn’t let them. Victor and I will go to Gretna Green.”

        “I’m not sure Victor is the upstanding alpha you think he is if he’s willing to ruin your reputation by eloping.”

        “I’ll have to convince him, of course. I’m not concerned about it though because Victor isn’t a stuffy, old prig.”

        “Oh what, like me? That’s a rude thing to say to your benefactor.”

        “Benefactor?”

        “Where are we?”

        “You don’t know where we are?” Sherlock said darkly. “How much did you have to drink?”

        “Ah here we are! I’ve found it. Come along.”

        “Your servants”-

        “They’re asleep. I don’t encourage my people to wait up for me.”

        “You want me to go into a house where the servants are asleep with a drunk alpha?” Sherlock asked flatly.

        “Yes, but don’t worry, I have no villainous motives. I’m old enough to be your father.”

        “No.”

        “I’m sure of it,” John said heartily.

        “You were nearly ten when I was born.”

        “Exactly.”

        “You _are_ foxed.”

        “Are you coming?”

        Sherlock hesitated a moment before entering the house. John led him into the drawing room and looked at him critically for a moment. Then he announced, “This won’t do. Wait here.”

        “Where are you going?” Sherlock asked but the door was already closing behind John.

        Sherlock waited for, what he felt was, an unreasonably long time. When John reentered the room he had changed into traveling clothes and looked considerably more sober than before. He held out a navy blue jacket and said, “This will fit you better than… _that_. It’ll help mask the hideous shirt. Good lord are your breeches from the last decade? I’ll have to tell people you’re a poor country relative. Don’t bother trying to save that cravat.” John ripped it unceremoniously from Sherlock’s neck and tossed it over his shoulder. “It was wrinkled and droopy. I’ll tie it properly for you.”

        Sherlock frowned and informed him, “You’re more sportsman than dandy. Don’t speak to me as though I offend your sensibilities.”

        “I’m more sportsman than dandy and you _do_ offend my sensibilities. That should alarm you. What do you look like in omega clothes? I can’t imagine pastels looking as pleasing as jewel tones against your paleness.”

        “Do you have dandy aspirations?” Sherlock asked suspiciously. He had had quite enough of that with Cousin Humphry.

        John grinned, “No. I do have a reputation though.”

        “What does your reputation matter?”

        “Well, I’m going with you to Bristol.”

        “Are you? Why?”

        John paused in the act of tying the cravat to study Sherlock thoughtfully, a strange light entered his eyes after a moment and he asked, “Have you ever been bored?”

        Solemnly Sherlock answered, “Yes.”

        “Oh good, then you understand. Stand still, brat.”

        When John finished preparing Sherlock half an hour had passed. Sherlock looked slightly more presentable with a properly cut jacket and cravat. His hair had been ruthlessly combed slick into the common fashion among alphas. John decided that Sherlock could probably pass as a sixteen year old alpha.

        Finally John held out a bottle and said, “Apply that directly to your, er, neck.”

        Sherlock read the label and raised his brows as he asked, “Why do you have scent changing perfume?”

        “Because if you’re alone with an omega then you’re doing something nefarious. If you’re alone with a beta then you’re doing something everyone whispers about. If you’re alone with another alpha… well, no one thinks a thing about it.”

        “You keep it for your indiscretions?” Sherlock clarified.

        “Yes,” John agreed. “I’m using it for my current indiscretion as well.” John paused to look at Sherlock again he gave a small chuckle and murmured, “My god they’ll think I’ve gone mad. Perhaps I have gone mad.”

        “In my experience,” said Sherlock absently as he applied the perfume, “mad people are generally more interesting than ordinary people.”

        John laughed, “Let’s go be mad then.”


	4. Chapter Four

        He was going to fire the driver, he decided maliciously. The carriage managed to hit yet another hole in the road and John decided he was going to fire everyone from the stables. His head pounded miserably, his mouth was dry and foul tasting, and his stomach was twisted unpleasantly. He was suffering from a rather impressive hangover. He was going to sack the person who had put boiled eggs in his carriage too. Because he could smell them and they were doing unholy things to his stomach.

        John pried open his eyes and made eye contact with a heavy-set beta woman holding a large basket in her lap. John suspected the basket contained the offending boiled eggs so he hated her viciously. He turned his attention rather irritably to the person seated to his right who seemed to think it was acceptable to tug on his jacket sleeve. This time he was met with a pair of silver eyes and an almost unbearably slim frame.

        As the memories of the prior evening came flooding back John blinked and glanced around the coach at the other passengers. Sherlock said, rather more loudly than John thought was necessary, “You’re awake, Mr. Watson.”

        “Finally,” grumbled a thick man with a weathered features across from Sherlock. “It ain’t right a tutor falling asleep like that. If he were my son I’d send that tutor on his way, mark my words I would.”

        John realized that Sherlock had told everyone he was a beta in the same instant that he realized the smells were so strong in the coach that you couldn’t tell what scent was coming from who. The only thing any of the strangers could tell was that there were betas and at least one alpha in the compartment. John was relieved that he couldn’t smell Sherlock’s omega scent. It meant the perfume was still working.

        The heavy-set woman said, “Leave ‘em alone Bill. I’m sure the gentleman is just tired from chasing after the scamp.” She sent Sherlock an affectionate smile whilst at least two people snorted at the term ‘gentleman’ and John nearly groaned. The bastard had somehow managed to get the coach to sympathize with him

        “I still don’t like it,” said Bill firmly.

        “I agree,” said a slender man wearing battered clothes and overly large spectacles. He looked exactly like the type of person to agree with something when no one cared about his opinion, thought John bitterly. “It’s obvious that he has been far too lenient with the alpha. Running away from home to visit friends at school? Only to get into so much trouble his tutor is able to find him without exerting effort? Striking up conversations with strangers and chattering on long past is decent? The alpha needs a firm hand, I say.”

        A woman with a puckered mouth nodded her agreement while the heavy-set woman glared at him. Sherlock managed to look innocent as a lamb, even though John knew he was far from fitting that description, as he looked at the thin man. “Mr. Watson takes great care to use a firm hand in my punishment. The stories I could tell you about the beatings he’s given me when I’ve been particularly smart.” He shuddered dramatically while John received venomous glares from Bill and the heavy-set wife. Apparently Sherlock’s performance had lost John one supporter of using a firm hand.

        “Well there’s no need to be cruel about it, after all,” said Bill thickly. “He’s just a child.”

        “I assure you, sir, that my ward more than earns his punishment. I think it would be for the best if you let these good people rest,” said John with a sharp look at Sherlock, who slumped in his seat and looked out the window. John did not roll his eyes because he was too well-bred for that, also he thought his stomach couldn’t handle it just then. However he thought about it because it seemed absurd that Sherlock was a bloody actor.

        After a few minutes the rest of the coach had found other things to occupy themselves. Sherlock glanced at John and smiled mischievously at him. It seemed entirely unfair of him to do that just when John had made up his mind to be furious with him. “What did you do?” John demanded quietly.

        “I got bored.”

        “So you decided to make me an abuser of innocents? And incompetent?”

        Sherlock shrugged, “I wanted to see how ridiculous I could make my story before no one believed me.”

        John pinched the bridge of his nose and willed his aching head to stop. It didn’t work. “Excellent,” he muttered sardonically. “It’s a brilliant plan. What was your plan for when they didn’t believe you and demanded the truth?”

        Sherlock pursed his lips and clasped his hands in front of his mouth thoughtfully. John wasn’t sure if he was more amused or annoyed by the apparent amount of thought Sherlock was giving this hypothetical. “Well,” began Sherlock slowly, “I imagine they would have woken you up. You are reasonably clever so I imagine you would have come up with an acceptable story.”

        “Your plan was to rely on me to have a plan.”

        “You are my benefactor,” Sherlock said, beaming.

        John sighed heavily, even though he was generally better bred than that. Then he frowned and said, “You said my name was Watson.”

        “You’re a beta and Watson isn’t that uncommon of a name.”

        Which was true. It was also true that Sherlock wasn’t that common of a name. “Did you tell them your name?” John asked cautiously.

        “Yes. William Scott,” Sherlock informed him haughtily. John didn’t care about his tone, he was just relieved that Sherlock had been worldly enough to know not to give out his real name. “I’m not an idiot.”

        John opened his eyes and studied Sherlock. The word ‘omega’ had not been used but John knew that Sherlock was thinking it. Most people found omegas to be inferior intellectually and physically to betas and, in particular, alphas. For a clever omega like Sherlock it couldn’t have been easy tolerating that. A crowded coach was hardly the time for John to ensure a disguised omega knew he was respected. So John said, “You did get the linens tangled.”

        “That had nothing to do with intellect,” argued Sherlock. “That was the wind.”

        John hmmed suspiciously, which made Sherlock growl, which made John chuckle. Then he said, “I’m going to try to rest some more. Be a good student and try not to turn me into a villain anymore.”

        “If one is the villain then one should accept the role gracefully.”

        “Oh my god. I can’t…” John made a gesture as he closed his eyes and leaned back. The coach was unimaginably uncomfortable, particularly for one used to travelling in more accommodating ways. He cursed himself for not taking his own carriage even as he acknowledged that that would have been impossible. It was going to cause enough of a scene that he had left at all.

        “John?” Sherlock whispered after a few minutes. John cracked open an eye to glare at him. “Are you sorry you came?”

         John thought of the uncomfortable, smelly coach he was in, the crowd of betas who thought him incompetent or cruel by turns, his aching head and unsettled stomach, and the scandal that would erupt at home as soon as people noticed he was missing. Considering all of these things John answered, “No.” He closed his eyes again and murmured, “I’m not bored.”

        Sherlock watched the strange alpha beside him try to rest after a night of drinking. Sherlock hadn’t been sure last night exactly how drunk John was because John could hold his drink very well. Once John had passed out in the coach it had been obvious that John was rather spectacularly drunk. It had caused a sliver of unease to run down Sherlock’s spine when he considered how much John was probably regretting having come along. Sherlock was a relatively fair-minded person so he would have understood if John had chosen to return home.

        Although it didn’t seem as though John was the type of alpha who would leave an omega unattended. Sherlock still wasn’t completely sure why John had decided to join him. Nor was he certain why he had allowed John to join him. Sherlock thought it would have been fairly simple to avoid John, particularly whilst John had been asleep and foxed. For some unfathomable reason Sherlock had allowed the odd alpha to join him.

        Sherlock turned his attention to the scenery because he had grown bored of the other passengers. They believed whatever he told them no matter how outlandish. The scenery wasn’t more interesting but at least it didn’t expect Sherlock to maintain the innocent, young alpha persona he had donned.

        Two hours passed before the coach stopped at a posting inn for any amount of time. John said sharply, “Stay here.”

        “You are not in charge of me.”

        “I am, actually, considering you made me your tutor,” John reminded him softly.

        “This is absurd! I refuse to allow you to hold me captive.”

        “Listen to me, _William_ I am going inside to get food and drink. You stay here and when I get back you can get out of the coach.”

        Sherlock narrowed his eyes and said, “You are not my jailer. I did not leave one set of shackles only to be handed another.”

        “Good lord, you should have been born a beta. The stage surely mourns the loss of your presence. I’ll return in a few minutes. _Stay here_.”

        John turned and walked away towards the posting inn. Sherlock snorted, wondering how on earth anyone with eyes could mistake John for a beta. He carried himself the way an alpha did, even if he didn’t seem to be quite as unutterably overbearing as some alphas. Sherlock took a moment to hate everyone stupid enough to believe that John was a beta. Then he left the coach.

        Wandering around towards the back Sherlock watched as three betas play a card game he didn’t recognize. After watching for a moment one of the betas happened to notice him. He grinned, revealing predominantly yellow crooked teeth with an ominous black tooth in the lower set. “Played afore?”

        “No.”

        “Wanna learn?” asked his companion with greasy hair and beady brown eyes.

        Sherlock looked at the three betas, criminals and cheats, and knew they were exactly who John had wanted him to stay away from. He also knew that the game looked… mildly interesting. “Yeah.”

        John left the posting inn with a small basket of food, annoyed with the landlord for taking so long. He knew that there was a finite amount of time that Sherlock would actually remain in the coach. In all honesty John wasn’t terribly surprised to find Sherlock not in the coach. He was furious, but not surprised. John glanced around briefly then headed in the direction that looked the most devious. John hadn’t known Sherlock for very long but he seemed to have a propensity for trouble.

        When John rounded the back of the building he found Sherlock. He also found three unsavory looking betas attacking Sherlock. One was managing to pin Sherlock’s arms to the ground whilst another kicked his stomach, and the third fought with his flaying legs. Based on the bloody nose the bloke sported Sherlock had caused a bit of damage with that last one. Actually, thought John with an odd sort of passivity, Sherlock seemed to have done damage to all three.

        The one kicking Sherlock was calling him a ‘bloody posh cheat’ and John shouted, “Oi! Get away from him!”

        “’E deserves it. Cheat!”

        “Get away!” John snarled. The betas finally stopped to look at John. “Get away from him or I will rip your innards out your throat.”

        When they didn’t move fast enough John started after the beta standing at Sherlock’s feet. He took off running and the other two followed. John turned and demanded sharply, “Are you alright?”

        Sherlock was on his feet, one arm curled protectively about his middle as he glared at John. Shockingly Sherlock seemed to be so furious he was literally shaking with rage. “I did not need you to come rescue me like I was some helpless omega damsel!”

        John couldn’t help but glance around even as he knew that Sherlock hadn’t actually said anything that damning. “That wasn’t what I was doing”-

        “No? You came back here with your teeth bared, shouting at them like some sort of medieval lord, and practically growling the word alpha at them. I did not need you! I was handling the matter.”

        “I did not help you because I thought you were a helpless omega. It had nothing to do with that and everything to do with you being an inexperienced twenty years old.” Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John spoke over him. “There were three of them, alright. You aren’t experienced enough to fight off three betas. If there had been one I think you could have handled him by yourself. If you’re going to start fights with a group of people then make sure I’m there.”

        Sherlock’s head jerked around to stare at John with wide-eyed shock. John was a bit impressed with himself for managing that. “You… what?”

        John stepped into Sherlock’s space, stared into his eyes, and said softly, “I am not your jailer, I am not your father, and I am not your alpha. I was rather hoping I could be something of a friend. Friends help each other out when they take on more betas or alphas than they can actually handle on their own.”

        Sherlock studied John for a very long few minutes before he nodded shortly and murmured, “Fine.”

        “Good. Let’s get back to the coach before it abandons us here at this awful posting house,” John said. “Why did they think you were cheating?”

        “Because I had never played the game before and I was winning.”

        “Ah, and you were winning because…?”

        “I am very clever,” boasted Sherlock. “The game is simple if you count the cards.”

        John laughed and they walked in silence until the coach came into view. Then John sighed, “You’re going to tell them I beat you as punishment, which is why you’re sore, aren’t you?”

        Sherlock grinned impishly at him and said, “It’s a very interesting story.”

 


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are very brief mentions of suicide and period typical views of suicide in this chapter.
> 
> Also notes at the end explain how alphas, omegas, and betas are viewed in the story. In case anyone was confused this will hopefully clear things up.

 

 

        Albert stood in front of John Watson’s house wondering miserably how he had ended up in this position. His plan had been to come check on John after his uncharacteristic night of debauchery. The porter at his club had informed Albert, after being asked and properly bribed, that John had taken off in the opposite direction of his house. On foot. That was a very odd occurrence, which Albert couldn’t account for. He had considered heading after his friend to ensure that John had gotten home safely. Then he had a vague recollection that one of John’s former betas lived in that direction.

        Based on this Albert had gone home satisfied until the next morning. Then it had occurred to him that perhaps the beta hadn’t lived in that direction. Or if he had lived that way there was no saying that John had made it there safely. John was a grown man and he didn’t particularly like being coddled, understandable of course, but Albert was still worried. John had nearly proposed to Mary Morstan – was, in fact, still planning on proposing – and there was no telling what that future would drive a man to do. So Albert had decided to pay a visit to John, just to make sure everything was truly fine.

        Unfortunately Harriet had found out where he was going and insisted on coming along. Somehow Albert didn’t think John would appreciate seeing his sister after a night of vice. Although Albert had noticed more than once that John and Harriet had a strange relationship. Either way Albert was wishing, with the desperation men of weak will were prone towards, that Thompson would not answer the door.

        The door opened just then to reveal Thompson, successfully dashing Albert’s hopes, particularly after he got a good look at Thompson’s face. The normally stoic butler looked haggard and worried. He made a visible effort to smooth his expression, and failed miserably. Before he could speak Harriet demanded sharply, “What has my brother done now, Thompson?” She had known Thompson too long to deal with pleasantries.

        Thompson looked offended at this breech of etiquette, which only showed how distressed the man was thought Albert. Thompson said formally, “Would Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher care to wait for Mr. Watson’s return?”

        “Oh for heaven’s sake,” cried Harriet in exasperation. She entered the house and rounded on him impatiently only to demand again, “What has my brother done now, Thompson?”

        “Perhaps this conversation would be best carried out”-

        “Where is John?”

        Worry creased Thompson’s face and he answered, “I don’t know, ma’am.”

        Harriet rolled her eyes and said, “I understand you have a loyalty towards John, but this is important. Where is he?”

        “I honestly don’t know, ma’am. No one has seen Mr. Watson.”

        “What do you mean? He didn’t come home last night?”

        “He came home but he didn’t sleep here. His bed was untouched but his rooms were in a disarray, almost as though he were searching for something. Also the drawing room… well, there was evidence of his presence is the drawing room as well.”

        Harriet stared at the man for a moment before turning and entering the drawing room. On the settee were a hideous teal jacket and wrinkled cravat. There was a comb and hair cream on the table beside the settee. “What on earth?” Harriet murmured to herself.

        “That table there,” Thompson said with a gesture, “was out of line this morning and the cushions were all over the floor. I had the room set to rights, but I did not know what to do with the… other items.”

        “Yes, thank you,” said Harriet dismissively. Thompson would hold his tongue about the strange events but it still was not the thing to discuss private matters in front of servants.

        “What was John doing?” Albert asked, mystified after the door had been shut.

        “I have no idea.” Harriet picked up the jacket to study disapprovingly.

        Albert sighed, “Poor boy. He must have come home so distraught last night he ripped off his jacket and cravat.”

        Harriet glared at him and demanded, “What would John have to be distraught about? Besides even if this jacket could fit John, which it is obviously too large, John would never wear something of this quality. It’s a disgrace.”

        “The idea of being tied to Mary Morstan is enough to make any man distraught,” Albert informed her. “Maybe the jacket didn’t belong to John and he had a guest.”

        “You think John brought one of his betas to his home?” Harriet asked flatly.

        Albert, missing Harriet’s actual point, studied the articles of clothing critically before he said, “It’s hardly the type of clothing a beta would wear, is it?”

        “They are alpha clothing – terrible alpha clothing,” she wrinkled her nose as she spread out the cravat. “Which means that even if John were uncouth enough to bring a beta here he obviously didn’t.”

        “It was a disguise,” Albert suggested.

        Harriet shook her head and said, “No. John wouldn’t have a beta dress this way even for a disguise. It would be no better to have an alpha visiting him in _this_.”

        Albert nodded, “Maybe he was particularly fond of the alpha.” The words were lightly spoken but an arrested light entered Albert’s eyes and he said softly, “Oh. Yes. He must have been very fond of his guest last night.”

        “Fond? What on earth are you talking about, Albert?”

        “Nothing. I just, well, I suppose that explains why he was so upset about marrying Mary Morstan.”

        “You are not making any sense”-

        “He must be in love with… a person,” said Albert with authority.

        “If John were in love with someone then why wouldn’t he have mentioned it? I specifically asked him if the reason he was reluctant to finally make a match with Mary was because he cared for someone.”

        “Well,” said Albert, looking uncomfortable, “maybe John was embarrassed.”

        For a moment Harriet thought that Albert was talking about John having fallen in love with one of his betas. She was fully prepared to scorn that idea because John had more sense than that. Although there had been his relationship with Major Sholto. That was different though because Major Sholto was a _gentleman_ beta. Harriet still wasn’t prepared to accept this idea because John had not loved Major Sholto. Whilst the relationship was occurring Harriet had hoped for something more, but John and Major Sholto seemed contented with a slightly friendlier than most friendship.

        She was just preparing to tell Albert how ridiculous he was when another thought entered her head. She blinked in surprise the idea was so unexpected. Then she narrowed her eyes and said, “You think John fell in love with a poor Alpha?”

        “The clothing isn’t that terrible,” Albert objected.

        “Albert.”

        “Would it be so terribly unexpected from your family?”

        Harriet flushed even though she did not want to and glared at her husband. Harriet had never intended to tell Albert about Clara, because even though he was a genial man Harriet’s actions were still illegal and Albert was her husband. If he chose Albert could do anything he wanted to her. Thus far he had not done anything about Harriet and, most importantly he had not done anything to Clara, even though as a disgraced omega no one would have thought anything of it.

        It had been accidental, Albert finding out about Harriet’s secret. He was hardly comfortable with it but he accepted it. They never discussed it, this was the closest they had come to that, but they never argued about it either. Albert did not seem to care who Harriet had an affair with so long as she did not care if he remained faithful.

        “John would have told me if it was something of that nature.”

        “There are things that one doesn’t want to discuss with one’s sister. Alpha or omega.”

        “No. He would have told me,” said Harriet firmly. “I _asked_ if there was someone else.”

        “I don’t see why you’re so keen to have him married in the first place.”

        “You have never met our cousin.”

        “He’s still a young man. There was plenty of time for him to marry.”

        “Oh be quiet!” Harriet cried. “We need to find John. He has an appointment with Sir Robert this afternoon.”

        Albert frowned and shook his head as he stared at the clothing. Then he said, “Maybe the clothing is from his past. Maybe he brought it out because he was foxed last night and was feeling a bit melancholy. He was probably just looking at the clothes trying to come to terms to a life with Mary Morstan. Only who could come to terms with that future? Oh Harriet,” he moaned, “John’s probably at the bottom of the Thames!”

        “John would never do that to his family!” Harriet cried. “Besides I _offered_ him other choices so all he had to do was say he didn’t want to marry Mary Morstan. What on earth would drowning himself accomplish?”

        Albert considered the matter for a few minutes before he said thoughtfully, “He wouldn’t have to worry about you harassing him anymore.”

        Harriet spluttered indignantly over the idea that she would _harass_ her brother so much he would put a period to his life to get away from her. Before she could form a coherent sentence there was a commotion outside the room. Neither had much hope that the source was John, just because he might not have done something as drastic as jumping in the Thames didn’t mean he wasn’t still gone, but both stared at the door expectantly. Thompson cried, exasperatedly, “Sir! I must ask you to stop!”

        “Leave off! John’ll be thrilled to see me!”

        “Mr. Watson is not home. Please!”

        The door swung open and Tom stumbled into the room. He frowned at the occupants, who were glaring at him in return, and asked, “Where’s John?”

        “He’s not at home,” said Harriet coldly.

        “Not at home? Good god, you mean he finally took my advice and ran? I’ll be, if that ain’t just like John to do the exact opposite of what one most particularly wants.”

        “He’s at the bottom of the Thames,” Albert said consolingly.

        Harriet shot Albert a nasty look while Tom stared at him. “Eh? John’s dead too?”

        “Of course he isn’t dead!” Harriet cried. She took in a deep breath, trying to regain her composure, and let it out slowly. Albert watched her interestedly while Tom wondered over to the window. When she opened her eyes Harriet frowned, “You said ‘too’. Who else is dead?”

        “You don’t know?” Tom asked distractedly. He was busy pouring himself a drink, which Harriet hadn’t noticed was also out of place. “I thought my mother’s sobs would be heard all over London.”

        “What happened to your mother?”

        “She’s hysterical. Mary tried to calm her down but she wasn’t having much success. I think my mother’s maid finally took control of the situation. She’s a terrifying beta so I’m sure my mother will be calmed down soon enough.”

        “Why does Lady Morstan need to be calmed down? What caused her hysterics?” Harriet asked impatiently.

        “Michael’s dead.”

        Harriet gasped and Albert asked, sympathetically, “The Thames?”

        “The Thames? No! Of course not. Why would Michael do something as stupid as that? John was preparing to marry into the family.” Tom paused with his drink halfway to his mouth, cast the clothing a disparaging glance and said, “Well, we _thought_ he was.”

        “We don’t know what John is planning,” said Harriet. “John doesn’t matter right now though! What happened to Michael?”

        “It’s the damnedest thing. I knew everyone _wanted_ to kill Michael but I didn’t think anyone would _actually_ kill him. He was murdered last night. What I can’t figure out is how they got into the house, unless Michael brought home a beta. – Or one of his widows. Michael’s never been that idiotic though. That’s why I came here to see John.”

        “You don’t think John killed Michael,” said Albert, sounding properly outraged.

        “John kill Michael?” Tom repeated blankly. “Why would John have done that? Don’t talk nonsense, Albert.”

        “Then why are you here?” Harriet demanded.

        “I came to see if John was still willing to buy my colours. Thought the military life would be better than having the Runners asking a bunch of impertinent questions. As though the Morstan’s were common betas!”

        “How else do you expect them to find the killer?” Albert asked. Harriet’s mouth pinched together, annoyed with her husband for prolonging this scene.

        Tom frowned at Albert, clearly baffled by his question and attempting to find the logic. After he apparently found none he asked, “Are you feeling alright? It was _Michael_. No one cares who killed him. He was dastardly anyway and couldn’t even make up for it by being amusing. The point is that I don’t want to have to bother with the Runners damn questions. – Or the scandal, really. My father is furious with the Runners so I cannot imagine he’ll keep things quiet.

        “Do you know what people will say once it gets out that Michael’s been murdered?” Tom demanded dramatically. He did not pause to allow his audience to answer. Instead he cried, “They’ll say that John doesn’t want to marry into the family! Well… he probably won’t and I don’t blame him. Truth be told I couldn’t ever quite see why he wanted to marry into it in the first place. If the creditors find out though I’ll have ‘em banging down the door to get their hands on me. Figured now was as good a time as any to become a military man.”

        Harriet and Albert stared at Tom as he finished off his speech by swallowing the rest of his drink in one go. Then Harriet promptly ignored everything Tom had told them and said, “It doesn’t make sense. Why on earth would someone want to kill Michael?”

        Tom snorted, “There’s a whole list of reasons why people would want to kill him. There’s a whole list of _people_ who would want to kill him. Those damn Runners won’t hurt for suspects. Where did you say John was? Dead? John don’t seem the type to blow his brains out.”

        “We think it was the Thames.”

        “Albert! Be quiet!” Harriet screeched. “John is not dead. He had to leave town to tend to urgent business at one of the Watson estates.”

        Tom stared at her blankly before he nodded, “He ran. Wish I had taken my own advice. Then maybe I wouldn’t have had to listen to those idiot Runners going on about Michael’s death. To hear them go on anyone would think Michael was someone to know! It’s a disgraceful waste of our time.”

        “Your brotherly love is moving.”

        Tom shrugged, unconcerned. Albert said, “Since John isn’t home perhaps we should leave.”

        Harriet huffed angrily and her mouth pinched together tighter. Tom beamed at them and said, “At least this way no one will wonder at John not coming to see my father today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this will answer any questions that you might have about alpha/omega/beta roles. If not feel free to ask. 
> 
> People are much more concerned with whether you are an alpha or omega or beta than anything else. Alphas and omegas make up the peerage and gentry. Betas are common people, frequently labors, although there are gentleman and gentlewoman betas.
> 
> If an omega were to marry a gentleperson beta they would lose their position in the ton, but still be tolerated in more country areas. If an alpha were to marry a gentleperson beta then the alpha would be tolerated in the ton and the beta would be a social pariah. 
> 
> First born alphas of wouldn't be encouraged to have a career because they would be responsible for taking care of the estates and producing heirs. Younger alphas would be encouraged to do things like become reverends, join the military, etc. The whole point of omegas is to breed so they wouldn't be allowed to do much of anything. Betas would be common people, farmers, maids, butlers, footmen, etc. Some betas would have managed to become things like solicitors, lawyers, doctors, military, etc. 
> 
> Alphas who mistreat beta servants would be talked about and people would disapprove, which would be enough to keep most alphas with less than respectable intentions in check. Although betas really wouldn't have any legal options because... it's alphas doing the abusing. People would expect alphas to mistreat disgraced omega servants. Being an omega limits you but people still expect others to treat you with propriety. Being a disgraced omega means you have zero rights and people don't expect anyone to treat you with any propriety/respect. The only hope a disgraced omega would have is their family protecting them. Which generally never happens because most disgraced omegas would be disowned.


	6. Chapter Six

        Despite the fact that some people felt they should have, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had never worried about Sherlock. In their humble opinion there was nothing wrong with Sherlock, hence nothing to be worried about. Even when Sherlock had been very young and had not spoken yet they had not been concerned. Other people had been concerned, had made consoling remarks, had said things like Poor Sherlock. Mr. Holmes typically blinked at people before shrugging and saying that Sherlock seemed happy and that was most important. The person he was speaking with generally gave him a condescending smile and agreed.

        When the subject was broached with Mrs. Holmes she generally said, “Why would I be concerned? Sherlock’s a stubborn boy and he doesn’t wish to speak now. No, of course I’m not concerned he’s stupid. He’s only four and he’s already smarter than you are. Wait! Why are you annoyed?” So for the first few years of his young life Sherlock didn’t speak and his parents never tried to force him. They spoke to him the same way they would speak to any adult and waited for him to finally deign to speak.

        When Sherlock did start to speak, at the age of five and in complete sentences with proper grammar, his parents didn’t seem surprised. They said it was lovely he’d decided to speak and that was the end of the matter. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had never doubted Sherlock’s _ability_ to speak if that’s what he wanted. It was only a matter of when Sherlock chose to speak.

        Of course once Sherlock started speaking he never stopped. He talked to his parents, the servants, his dog, the dubiously named Redbeard, other children he happened upon who stared at him, adults who watched him warily, himself, and various inanimate objects he had decided were worthy. Then the people who had expressed concern over Sherlock not speaking were expressing concern over an omega speaking too much. They were ignored by Mr. and Mrs. Holmes because, _honestly_ , that type of nonsense was not worth responding to.

        It wasn’t until his parents died that, for the first time since he’d started speaking, Sherlock suddenly stopped. He spent three days not saying a word to anyone. There were no insults, no explanations of information, no expressions of grief, and no absently murmured thoughts. It was uninterrupted silence and stillness. Then on the fourth day Sherlock suddenly announced that he hated ham and he refused to eat it ever again.

        After that Sherlock would go for long stretches of time without speaking. He informed anyone who dared ask that he was _thinking_ during these times. So the fact that Aunt Helena and Uncle Horace frequently left Sherlock completely alone did not bother Sherlock. He did not need to speak the way ordinary people did. Besides the only people he knew anymore were friends of Aunt Helena and Uncle Horace which meant they were unbearably stupid.

        Sherlock was used to being without a conversation companion so his boredom in the coach was brought on by having nothing to think about. John didn’t seem inclined to talk in front of strangers, which Sherlock supposed he could understand a bit, and had been watching a burly beta across from himself passively. None of the passengers were worth deducing things about because they were all hideously dull.

        Bill and his heavy-set wife, Nell, had left the coach. It didn’t really matter because everyone was so unimaginative that they believed anything Sherlock told them. The burly man, who was part of a set with his brother, and their father had gotten on in place of Bill and Nell. The family were on their way to make a livestock purchase. The father idiotically did not know that the brothers had a minor part in a smuggling ring. Dull.

        The slender man and sour faced woman from earlier were still in the coach. They both hated Sherlock, which seemed fair since he hated them. Both were irritated with their lot in life and too bitter to do anything about it. So Sherlock was going mad from the unmitigated nothingness.

        The farmer was currently in the midst of boring everyone with a tedious story about a foxes stealing his chickens from the coop. Sherlock was trying to drown his obnoxious voice out by debating the benefits of hitting his head against the wood paneling. Finally the farmer chuckled, “Didn’t know foxes were such clever creatures till these came along.”

        “No,” Sherlock blurted out, because if he had to listen to one more word about the cleverness of foxes he was going to commit murder. The farmer looked at him askance. Sherlock decided this was fair enough considering he hadn’t spoken, despite it being rude, since the farmer and his sons entered the coach. “The foxes aren’t clever, you’re an idiot. There aren’t even any foxes to be clever.”

        The farmer gave an indulgent smile and said, “You think you know something about farming that ole Amos don’t know? It’s always the same with these young boys,” he told the slender man conspiratorially.

        “It’s your neighbor. Your neighbor is stealing your chickens, not foxes. Stop setting traps for foxes and start setting traps for your neighbor.”

        “My neighbor?”

        “Most likely suspect. He was the one who first brought up seeing the foxes.”

        Amos frowned, “You think Abernathy stole my chickens? He couldn’t’ve.”

        Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and groaned expansively. Why was everyone so perpetually stupid? “Of course he could. He very likely did. He’s jealous of the fact that your land is doing well whilst his is barely surviving. It could be someone else I suppose but it is definitely not foxes.”

        “It might be.”

        “It’s not,” Sherlock interrupted flatly. He scowled at Amos, who was staring at him hard, obviously concentrating. “For one thing foxes don’t unlatch locks. They break in and cause damage. For another thing the chickens are never frightened. You go in every morning and don’t know whether one of your chickens is missing until you look for it. If it were foxes then the chickens would be upset. Haven’t you ever dealt with foxes? There would be feathers and blood.

        “Abernathy thinks stealing your chickens will help him. He’s gentle with the chickens because he’s keeping them to lay eggs for him. That’s why he doesn’t create a realistic crime and cause havoc. That’s also why your best layers are being taken. Abernathy is stupid though. He should forget about your chickens and steal your sheep. Or better yet strike up a business arrangement with your sons. He’s proven himself open to criminal activities, so why not add another to the list?”

        “That’s fantastic,” said John in awe. Sherlock frowned at him because no one ever said that when Sherlock made his deductions. John looked impressed and proud and Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what do with this reaction.

        Amos said blankly, “What?”

        One of the sons gave him a suspicious look and demanded, “What do you know about our business?” The other son elbowed him, looking thunderous.

        The sour faced woman said, “I saw a gypsy at a fair once who knew things like that. She claimed she could talk to the spirits. How do you know all of those things?”

        Sherlock rolled his eyes because these reactions he was used to receiving. “The same way,” he said cheerfully. “I’m bosom friends with the devil.”

        There was a painfully loud silence for exactly three seconds before the sour faced woman started screaming. Sherlock startled because he had not been expecting that severe of a reaction. He had calculated on her being upset and saying snide insults and lecturing John. He had not expected the coach to erupt into hysteria.

        The sour faced woman screamed and the slender man yelled at her to control herself. Amos and his sons lurched for Sherlock, who kicked one son in the stomach and Amos in the face. John very neatly took care of the second son. The driver had slowed the coach and was yelling insults with demands to know what was happening interspersed.

        John, realising they were going to have a long fight on their hands, followed by an uncomfortable conversation, flung open the coach door. Without pause he shoved Sherlock out before following. John groaned slightly at hitting the ground so abruptly but he couldn’t dwell on that. Instead he got to his feet and turned to face the departing coach in case it stopped and the passengers decided Sherlock was a witch and killed him.

        There were three youths on the roof of the coach, undoubtedly wealthy alphas on a lark, who were laughing. They seemed impressed that John had gotten to his feet so quickly. One of the female alphas nudged the male alpha, who nodded and turned away from the scene. Before the coach was too far away two pieces of luggage were thrown off the roof and the contents scattered on the road. John took a deep breath and decided that that had been a kindness in its own ridiculous way.

        He turned to Sherlock, fully prepared to lecture him, when he realised something was wrong. Sherlock was sitting up and cradling his arm, glaring at the blood that was the product of a cut. “Damn,” muttered John as he knelt.

        “I’m fine. Go get my things.”

        “Hush. You’re not in a position to be demanding things of me anyway.”

        Sherlock spluttered indignantly as John examined his arm. “I’m not the one who shoved us out of a moving coach!”

        “No,” agreed John as he moved away. “You’re the one who caused a coach full of people to turn on us. I’m using one of Cousin Humphrey’s cravats on that arm.”

        “Use _all_ of his stupid cravats! What difference does it make?” Sherlock cried furiously.

        John ignored him in favor of searching for the least dusty cravat. Neither spoke as John took care of Sherlock’s arm. John’s shoulder ached and he was fairly certain he had bruised his leg. He wondered what other injuries Sherlock had sustained. It was unlikely the coach passengers would have calmed down enough to allow Sherlock and John to continue on with them, but John still regretted having to abandon the coach the way they had. This unexpected stop also meant they were going to have to find another way to Bristol and that they were behind schedule.

        Sherlock sulked while John cared for his arm. The cut, thankfully, wasn’t that deep and John was hopeful that they wouldn’t need to sew it together. He glanced up to see Sherlock glowering at him so he said, “Bosom friends with the devil?”

        Sherlock snorted derisively and said sullenly, “I didn’t think she would be stupid enough to react that way. I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to react that way.”

        “Gypsies get that reaction too,” John pointed out. “A lot of towns won’t allow gypsies to set up a stall.”

        “It’s not as though they actually associate with spirits.”

        “No?”

        “Of course not. No one actually does that. Gypsies just pay attention and feed off the idiotic fear of the masses.” Sherlock paused thoughtfully before he continued, “I quite like them.”

        John grinned, “Have you ever actually met a gypsy?”

        “Yes.”

        “Have you? How? Did fish-face take you?”

        Sherlock smiled, “Humphrey’s afraid of gypsies. He’s one of the idiotic masses.” Then he shrugged, “I’ve slipped away from Aunt Helena before, of course. Every time I do she tries to make her home more secure.”

        John stepped away from Sherlock and sighed as he surveyed the urchin in tattered clothes and dirt all over him. It was going to be difficult to convince a landlord that they were respectable with Sherlock looking the way he did. John didn’t imagine his own appearance was any better. “I suppose we should collect our things.”

        Sherlock grimaced and said, “I disagree. Why don’t we just leave everything and send someone to buy us new things.”

        “We are trying to avoid looking suspicious, William.”

        Sherlock scowled and muttered, “Ridiculous name.”

        “Then why did you pick it?”

        “I didn’t,” rejoined Sherlock, although John had no idea what that meant. “ _Are_ we trying to avoid looking suspicious? Why?”

        “As a general rule I find it helps things go more smoothly to avoid looking suspicious. However if you want a specific reason pick any one of the occurrences since meeting you.”

        Sherlock’s face shuttered and a speculative look entered his eyes as he studied John closely. “Do you regret becoming my benefactor?”

        John chuckled, “Believe me, William I will tell you if I regret that. Now then I would like to reach an inn before nightfall and you need more perfume.”

        “Do I?” Sherlock asked, sniffing at himself indelicately. He made a face and nodded his agreement before giving John an innocent look.

        John stared at him blankly for a moment before he nodded too. “Yes.”

        “Yes?”

        “You, I’ve decided, are going to be the death of me.”

        “Well, at least it will be an interesting death.”

        John glanced at him and asked, “Why do you say that?”

        “Because I never do anything unless it’s interesting.”

        “Of course,” John said and decided that all those etiquette lessons were going to be ruined if he continued sighing. “Gather your things.”

        Sherlock stood but hesitated and said, “John, I was injured.” John hummed his agreement. “I could have _died_.”

        “If you had been trying very hard.”

        “Shouldn’t you gallantly offer to gather my things for me?” Sherlock pouted. “I’m very weak and fragile and delicate so you should take care of that.”

        John laughed. “After the way you yelled at me when I helped you when you were attacked? I think not. Stop being lazy and gather your things, brat.”

        Sherlock grumbled, “You’re not a very good alpha.”

        “Oh am I alpha again? I suppose that’s good to know. I wasn’t sure if you were going to ask me to douse myself with perfume so I could act as a beta whilst I’m your tutor.” John said sardonically. A thoughtful look crossed Sherlock’s face which caused John to say sharply, “I’m not doing that.”

        “It opens up a world of possibilities though.”

        “No. I am going to be an alpha and you are going to be my alpha nephew.”

        “What if I don’t want to be your alpha nephew?”

        “Then you really shouldn’t have gotten your sheets tangled.”

        “That was the wind!”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry it's been so long since I've last posted. So much happened with the holidays and what-not. However, I can say that there will be a chapter posted next week if that helps.
> 
> Also thank you guys so much for the kudos and comments! It's meant so much to me!

 

 

         Once their things had been gathered Sherlock announced, “Well there's nothing for it now. The two of us will never manage to pass ourselves off as respectable. We will have to tell the truth.”

        “The truth?”

        “Well a version of the truth.”

        “You are very good at giving versions of the truth, aren’t you?”

        “I have it all worked out,” said Sherlock ignoring John’s comment. “We can tell them that you are my uncle and we were traveling from my school, from which I have been rusticated for the usual alpha reasons, and you are taking me home. Our carriage had an accident and we chose to go to the nearest inn when our carriage was taken for repairs.”

        “Should I be alarmed at how adept you are at lying?”

        “Should I be alarmed at how well you fight?” Sherlock retorted.

        “Considering you seem to have a penchant for finding trouble, I should think you would be grateful. How does anyone manage to keep up with you?” John said lightly.

        Sherlock answered, “They don’t.”

        John glanced at Sherlock and noticed his mouth turning down at the corners and his brow furrowed. John hesitated a moment then said, “Well you must be getting careless. After all I am still with you and I was drunk for a large portion of our trip.”

        “You think if I wished it then I could not be rid of you?” Sherlock demanded, offended.

        “I think that is a wager I would rather not make,” said John. “There was an inn not far back the way we came. We should be able to find lodging there for the night and discover what traveling accommodations they have.”

        Sherlock nodded his agreement and they started on their way. They hadn’t been walking for very long before Sherlock said, “When I asked you why you were agreeing to come with me you asked me if I have ever been bored, implying that you were coming with me because you were bored.” John eyed him uncertainly but nodded. “If you were bored then why not become a doctor? Is that not what you would have liked?”

        John raised a brow and pursed his lips. “What makes you think that is what I would have liked?”

        “You took care of my arm. It was far from the basic, fumbling care that most people would have given either. You knew what you were doing. I suppose that could have been from experience, you are a sportsman. It’s likely that you and various acquaintances over the years have been injured. However the fact that you have a medical journal in your drawing room speaks to more than a passing interest in the subject. Why was it in your drawing room? Curious place to leave something for all to see. You had, what appeared to have been, brandy in the room as well. It was out of place though. That suggests that you had a meeting there that was stressful for you and the household considering your butler did not remove the brandy. The butler may have brought the medical journal to you but it’s more likely you got it yourself.” Sherlock explained at rapid fire pace.

        John gaped at him and announced, “That was fantastic.”

        Sherlock frowned, “You said that before. When we were in the coach.”

        “Well… it _was_ fantastic,” John said. Sherlock hummed skeptically. John's hand tightened on his luggage at the hum that said a great deal more than Sherlock likely realised. John cleared his throat and said, “Yes. I have always been interested in the science of medicine.”

        “Obviously. My question was why you did you not become a doctor?”

        John clenched and unclenched his free hand as he made a conscious effort not to allow the tension to seep into his body. With forced lightness he said, “Well, it would hardly have been an appropriate career for me, would it?”

        “Does that matter?”

        “It does when one has a sister and mother who love to be the all the rage,” said John. Sherlock gave him a dubious look. “My father died when I was fifteen, leaving me as the only alpha in the family. I had to become head of the family not something as frivolous as a doctor.”

        “Or an army man,” said Sherlock. John looked surprised and vaguely resigned. “You are often spoken of as running in military circles. You’re a crack shot. You even hold yourself with a military bearing. Although I suspect you are not aware you do that.”

        “A military bearing? Is that something you can actually see?”

        “Of course,” scoffed Sherlock.

        “Of course,” John murmured. “How do you manage that? Knowing about me and foxes and things?”

        “I observe the world and make connections.”

        “You are,” said John warmly, “the most fascinating person I have ever met.”

        “Do you think so?”

        “Yes. And you’ve been… where have you been all this time? I know you haven’t had your come out yet.”

        Sherlock snorted, “I have. It was disastrous, which I _told_ Aunt Helena it would be. She did not seem nearly as annoyed as I would have expected. I suppose she had decided that it didn't matter since she was wanting me to marry Humphrey. Social functions such as that are deadly dull in the ordinary sense. They are useful for collecting data but not for much else.”

        “Data?”

        “For my observations.”

        “Oh. What sort of observations have you made?” John asked curiously.

        Sherlock grinned then launched into a discussion of his observations and deductions and how simple everything was if only people would see. John was thoroughly fascinated by Sherlock’s explanations and, whenever he made the mistake of doubting Sherlock, he was given a demonstration of his skill. While he spoke Sherlock was very animated, gesturing wildly and speaking almost too fast to understand at some points. John guessed that Sherlock had not had someone to share his insights with in a very long time. Whenever John complimented him Sherlock seemed especially pleased, which made John grin.

        With the way Sherlock entertained him John barely noticed the long walk to the inn. Eventually Sherlock even asked about John. Although John got the distinct impression he was only asking to be polite, which was still flattering since Sherlock did not seem interested in being polite unless he was lying to someone. However once John started he sensed Sherlock’s interest shift from polite to genuine. Even as he called himself ridiculous John acknowledged that he was flattered.

       When the inn finally came into sight John felt very little relief. The inn was small and surrounded by nothing. In his experience small inns did not take kindly to strangers who looked as though they did not have two pence. John glanced at Sherlock and knew that they had the look of penniless gentry. John felt his injuries twinge at the thought of dealing with a suspicious landlord. All John wanted to do was state his needs and have them filled. It was far more likely that the landlord would take the pair of them for disheveled vagrants and attempt to refuse them. John knew he was going to have to use his name, breeding, and money to get what he wanted. Fortunately he did have these things and knew how to use them, but he did not want to have to bother.

        John gave Sherlock a stern look, which clearly offended him, and said, “ _I_ will talk to the landlord. You will stand there looking young and innocent.”

        “That is unfair and ridiculous,” objected Sherlock. “I am a great deal better at lying than you.”

        “You have no idea if that is true. You have never even seen me lie. When I actually want to lie," said John firmly when Sherlock opened his mouth. Sherlock pursed his lips and regarded John dubiously. "My lies also have the benefit of being reasonable and plausible.”

        “It is not my fault that everyone was idiotish to believe me when I declared you a beta.”

        “I – you think that was the implausible bit?”

        “Yes, of course. Everything else I said was wholly plausible.”

        Sherlock stared at John as though he were sincerely worried that John had gone mad. John shook his head and decided not to continue in that vein. Instead he said, “If you will remember, William, you are an adolescent. The landlord would find it peculiar if you were the one taking the lead.”

        “What’s the point of being an alpha if I still am unable to _do_ anything?” Sherlock grumbled.

        “I don’t know.” John eyed Sherlock’s ill-fitted and dusty clothes and offered dubiously, “Better clothing?”

        Sherlock was not amused by John’s humor and immediately began to sulk. John thought this was absurd of Sherlock because it wasn’t as though the clothes belonged to Sherlock. However John was hoping that Sherlock would be too busy sulking to attempt chatting with the landlord. The last thing they needed was some ridiculous story about Sherlock communing with the devil and John being his tutor or sacrifice or something equally nonsensical.

        The inn was clean, if shabby, but John thought that they could have ended up a lot worse off. The landlord bustled out happily calling out a greeting before he saw them even. He stopped so abruptly upon actually seeing them though that his massive midsection shook. He studied the pair of them warily and said, curtly, “Yes?”

        Definitely not a good sign. John smiled charmingly and said, “Hello. My nephew and I were on our way to Bristol when our carriage had an accident. We were hoping to stay the night here.”

        “Oh you were, were you?" The landlord said suspiciously. He looked past them into the yard, frowning, and said, "Where’s this carriage at then?”

        John said, with a slight stiffness under his pleasantness, “I sent it ahead to the nearest town. It was thought unlikely that there would be anywhere to have repairs made around here. However my coachmen did remember your inn and it was a closer walk than the next town.”

        “Oh they did, did they?” The landlord said, disbelievingly. John hated him immensely. “That’s convenient of ‘em.”

        “They are the best. Of course they knew how to cause me the least inconvenience. Currently what I need are rooms for my nephew and myself.”

        The landlord shifted his gaze to Sherlock, petulant and dusty, before he shook his head. “We don’t serve your kind here. We’re a respectable business, we are. I’ll thank you to leave.”

        “Will you?” John asked softly. The landlord stiffened and narrowed his eyes suspiciously at John. “I suggest that you ask for my card, sir.” John handed over his card without being asked for it because he did not have the patience for that nonsense.

        The landlord took it with an unimpressed sniff. John was looking coldly down his nose at the man and the landlord regarded John with annoyance. Finally the landlord's eyes shifted to the card and widened comically when he read it. “Oh. Oh! Sir, I had – I _beg_ your pardon, sir. Of course you are welcome. I never meant to imply anything other than that, sir. You must admit that you and your nephew – well, what I mean is, you don’t exactly look…” he chuckled weakly.

        John’s mouth tightened and he drawled, “Yes. Our dishabille is a result of the accident I told you about. If you could secure two rooms and a private parlour for me I would be grateful.”

        The landlord hesitated uncertainly in the doorway, flickering his gaze between the two. He tentatively asked, “Two rooms, sir?”

        “My nephew snores.”

        Sherlock spluttered indignantly and cried, “I do not _snore!_ ”

        Sherlock seethed as the landlord gave him an amused and indulgent look. The man was an idiot and easily bullied! John looked at Sherlock with hooded eyes and drawled, “Yes, you do. Our rooms, if you please.”

        Sherlock watched as the landlord scurried away, calling out someone’s name, and hated him viciously. He was annoying but also irrelevant so Sherlock put him firmly out of his mind. Instead Sherlock regarded John curiously. John ignored him, taking in his surrounding with a sharp, elegant, almost haughty look. Sherlock studied him because Sherlock had no idea who _this_ John was because he had never met _this_ John.

        This was not the same John who had drunkenly agreed to accompany Sherlock on his trip or the John who had offered to help Sherlock in a fight because they were friends. _This_ John was head of his family, a wealthy alpha used to telling people what to do, sharp, proud, and unreachable. Sherlock was used to having himself described similarly but he was surprised to realise the description could be applied to John. Sherlock was fascinated by this discrepancy in John’s character. John had very clearly made the decision to act the way he was acting.

        Before Sherlock had the chance to ask about it the landlord came back with a maid to take them to their rooms. As irritating as it was to have his interrogation interrupted before it had even begun, Sherlock was looking forward to refreshing himself. All day in a smelly coach followed by a tumble from said coach meant that he was filthy, sweaty, and smelly. Sherlock impatiently washed his face and hands, changed into fresh clothes, and refreshed his scent perfume when he was finally in his room. He did not linger, mostly because he never lingered, but also because he was eager to question John.

        Annoyance flared when he entered their private parlour a short time later and discovered John was not there. Sherlock paced the room crossly. When the waiter made the mistake of asking Sherlock if he needed anything, Sherlock could only growl at him in frustration. Unacceptable behavior in an omega, but understandable of a young, energetic alpha. Sherlock was distantly aware that he was, perhaps, overreacting. He felt restless though and his mind was starting to fracture under the strain of its racing thoughts and nothing to focus on. If John were there then Sherlock could have focused on questioning him.

        Ten minutes passed during which  _John still did not return_ much to Sherlock's frustration. He finally stopped pacing long enough to hit his head against the window. He hated it when his mind got like this. And he hated this stupid inn, he hated this trip, he hated his relatives, and-

        Sherlock focused suddenly on what he had been staring at out the window. He frowned at it for a few moments before he grinned. Without hesitation he ran out of the private parlour and nearly knocked over the waiter. Without preamble Sherlock demanded, “Take me to your garden.”

        The waiter, having never received this type of request, stared at Sherlock. His mouth opened and shut while Sherlock glared at him. “I – I beg your pardon?”

        “The garden! Surely you have been to the garden before. Take me to the garden! It’s urgent.”

        Without waiting for a reply Sherlock set off in the direction of the garden. The waiter followed behind, deeply confused about what exactly was being requested. “Is it, sir? Urgent,” asked the waiter.

        “Yes,” insisted Sherlock. The waiter did not know what to make of the boy who had growled at him angrily and was now looking at him with eyes bright with excitement. He tried not to let Sherlock see how mad he thought Sherlock was behaving. He decided that this was just another example of the unfathomable oddities of the gentry.


	8. Chapter Eight

        The parlour was both still in order and empty of persons when John finally entered some twenty minutes after they had arrived at the inn. John was vaguely surprised but not much concerned by Sherlock’s absence. They had both needed freshening and the boy was in the midst of a sulk. Although John was unfamiliar with Sherlock’s behavior during sulks he was not unfamiliar with sulks in general. The idea that Sherlock was avoiding John’s company for as long as possible seemed plausible.

        The waiter looked at him strangely when John ordered supper, which led John to believe that Sherlock had gone around telling some outrageous lie or another. After a momentary debate with himself John decided against finding out the particulars of the lie. He thought it probable that Sherlock would gleefully inform him. There was no discernible point in asking the servants.

                After the waiter was gone John sat and idly studied his Hessians. He thought it likely that Walters would never recover from their loss. It would hardly be shocking if Walters decided to leave his service altogether, he loved the boots so. John thought, in a bored sort of way, it would be a lot less hassle if Walters would just kill him. He wondered if he should bother telling Sherlock the heartache his valet was going to endure when John returned. Sherlock would hardly be bothered by the news, John knew. In fact he grinned broadly as he imagined Sherlock telling him something absurd. Probably something about if Walters was dull enough to leave over boots then John was well rid of him. Sherlock clearly had no concept of how valuable a good valet was (his relatives fault, no doubt) or how devastating a blow it would be to lose Walters, who was the best.

        Naturally, with these thoughts other thoughts about home invaded his mind. Up until this point he had been too distracted, by illness or Sherlock, to give much thought to everything that was probably happening at home. He imagined that his mother had taken to her bed – deathbed, no doubt – from the shock of John’s abandonment. She would be surrounded by her most faithful friends whilst she bemoaned his lack of consideration for her health. Harry was most likely furious and vowing she would never speak to him again after this. How John wished she were one to keep her vows.

        Sir Robert seemed unlikely to realise that John had missed a meeting with him, or even that John had had a meeting scheduled. Mary… well, Mary was very likely behaving the exact way polite society deemed correct for her. John had no very clear idea what this behavior would be but he had every confidence that Mary knew. John stood abruptly, suddenly feeling restless, and acknowledged that he was not very fair towards Mary. There was nothing whatsoever wrong with Mary. She was just simply Mary.

        John strode over to the window and stared out of it unseeingly for several minutes. Mary would no doubt make him a very dutiful wife. She would never complain or disrupt his life. She would breed the way she was expected to and play hostess to perfection. Her connection to his family was not something to be ignored either.

        John’s eye was finally caught by a figure in the garden and he focused on it. He narrowed his eyes and frowned down at it briefly before giving a slight shake of his head. He turned as the waiter reentered the room with supper. “Keep the covers on. I’ll return momentarily.”

        The waiter was the same who had dealt with Sherlock, so showed little surprise as he stuttered, “Y-yes, sir.”

        John was annoyed but he was hardly angry at Sherlock. He still had enough possession of mind to glance at the main dining room. There were only three patrons in there and they all were distracted by drink, food, and arguing. It seemed unlikely that Sherlock had spoken to them. John hoped he hadn’t because he sincerely did not want to draw unnecessary attention to their presence in the inn.

        Ultimately he ignored them in favor of striding out the door to the back garden. Sherlock was there hunched over and frowning at the plants. John stopped at the edge of the garden and sighed, not drawing Sherlock’s attention at all. He cleared his throat, still not drawing Sherlock’s attention, and finally gave up all attempt at subtly, and said, “Hello. Am I interrupting something, brat?”

        Sherlock’s head snapped up, and he beamed brilliantly and said, “John! This garden is _spectacular_! The herbs are perfect for… well, for my experiments.”

        John made a conscious decision to be grateful that Sherlock had changed the word to experiment. “Right. Supper’s been brought to the parlour, if you could gather your things.”

        Sherlock rocked back on his heels to better study John. He frowned, “You’re annoyed with me. Why? The _garden_ ”-

        “I am annoyed because my supper is cooling. Gather your herbs and come along.”

        “But”-

        “William.”

        Sherlock huffed but gathered his herbs as requested. He marched past John angrily, offended, and into the inn. John withheld a laugh at the dramatics as he followed behind. In the parlour Sherlock gave the covered plates a disdainful look before he began sorting through his herbs. John sat, much more interested in his food, and watched Sherlock silently for several minutes.

        “You should eat,” said John casually. “The food is,” John trailed off as he considered the slightly dry meat and soggy vegetables, and thought longingly of his cook at home. He raised a brow and finished, “tolerable.”

        Sherlock looked doubtfully at the food and muttered, “Not hungry.”

        John frowned, “You didn’t eat anything from the basket this afternoon. You need to eat.”

        “No. Thank you.  Eating slows me down. Bogs the thought process too much,” said Sherlock absently.

        “You have to eat, William. Have a bit of bread. Look, my generosity even extends towards butter for your bread.”

        “Never let it be said John Watson is a heartless benefactor,” muttered Sherlock. John burst out laughing as Sherlock looked at him from beneath his lashes.

        It was something of a relief when Sherlock actually took a piece of bread and ate it. Sherlock was eating absently, engrossed with his new project, but John didn’t mind. There was a particular hollowness to Sherlock’s cheeks that had initially inspired John to think it was neglect on the part of Sherlock’s family. Now he thought it was caused by neglect on Sherlock’s part. Sherlock was too obstinate by half.

        After John had satisfied himself that Sherlock was going to continue eating, he looked over the herbs still spread out on the table and asked, “How did you come to be interested in sciences? Not an ordinary hobby for an omega to have.”  
        Sherlock narrowed his eyes and his mouth tightened so that John knew he had offended him. Icily Sherlock said, “I am not stupid.”

        “Of that I have no doubt. I only meant that most omegas don’t have the opportunity to learn about such things. Yet here you are trying to perfect a scent changing perfume. I am simply wondering who first inspired your interests.”

        Sherlock stared at him a moment trying to determine John’s sincerity. John returned his gaze levelly but had no very real hope of Sherlock answering his question. Or at the very least not answering it honestly. John thought it wisest to remain quiet even when Sherlock looked away.  Finally he shrugged, “My mother. She died, obviously, but before that. She… began my interest in the subject.”

        John watched the downturn of Sherlock’s mouth and decided that he believed him. He decided against addressing Mrs. Holmes’ death, since for one thing he had already known about and for another he doubted very much that Sherlock would appreciate it.  Instead he simply asked, “Was she an alpha?”

        “No.”

        “Discretion, if you please,” drawled John. “There’s no reason to tell me your entire life story immediately.”

        A small smile appeared on Sherlock’s face, which was more than John had hoped. He said, “My mother was a bluestocking and my father a scholar. My alpha grandmother taught my mother about sciences because she was a scholar. She tended to disagree with the theory that an omega’s mind is too weak to handle such things. My family has always been – well, at least we have always been fabulously wealthy.”

        “I congratulate your ancestors on being astute enough to secure wealth,” said John. Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned with John’s wit or with his own story. “So your mother taught you about the sciences. Was she the one who encouraged your interest in scent perfumes? It seems a peculiar interest for anyone, especially when one considers that the scent perfume I have is superb quality.”

        “It does an acceptable job. All scent perfumes are flawed though. If the wearer becomes distressed in the least bit the perfume begins to diminish. Eventually your scent comes through. What use is a scent changing perfume if it doesn’t work when the wearer becomes distressed? If the wearer is bonded then it’s worse, too. Also excessive sweating will cause the perfume to dilute.”

        “Excessive sweating? How do you know so much about use of scent changing perfumes? The one you were using wasn’t strong enough and you weren’t sweating at all.”

        “Irene told me about excessive sweating being an issue. In fact, she is the one who first suggested I look into perfecting scent perfumes. Ordinary scent perfumes are more than capable for use when I wish to go out without my aunt or uncle.”

        “Irene?”

        “Mm,” agreed Sherlock absently. He glanced up to see the question in John’s eye and said, “Irene Adler. She’s my friend.”

        “Irene Adler?” John repeated. “That name sounds familiar to me. I would swear that I had heard it before, but it seems unlikely anyone you know would run in the same circles as myself.  I can’t think”-

        John broke off and stared at Sherlock with an arrested expression. Sherlock was too busy with his food to notice, but John had an unpleasant feeling his thought was correct. There was only one Irene Adler that John knew of and it seemed absurd to suppose that a young omega such as Sherlock would know her. However John knew Sherlock well enough by now to know that he was hardly the ordinary sort.

        Irene Adler, the one John knew at least, was an alpha. She came from an excellent family line and income but, for reasons unknown, she had left her family’s protection. There were a great many rumors about Irene – Madam Adler – and the pursuits she followed. All of them were of an illicit nature, which on one spoke of directly. Even in the right circles there was only ever whispers and innuendo.

        John knew that Madam Adler did not discriminate with her ‘friends’. She had omegas, alphas, and a few wealthy betas who visited her. Madam Adler never used a scent changing perfume, according to rumor, but she welcomed her friends to use them. It was unusual for scent changing perfumes to be used privately in such a way, most washed the perfume off in private.

        The lure of Madam Adler, apart from beauty, was that a person could smell however they wished and she was discrete. Although if rumors were true her discretion usually came at a pretty price. It was widely agreed that the only reason Madam Adler had not been arrested for her crimes was that she knew the Royal family’s secrets.

        After several minutes silence John asked, “You mean… Madam Adler?”

        Sherlock’s face lit up as he said, “Oh, do you know her?”

        John stared at Sherlock, completely dumbfounded by this revelation. Sherlock didn’t look put out in the least as he waited for John to reply. For a moment John was torn between horror and amusement. Fortunately he had always had a reasonable sense of humor and that won out in the end. He gave a short laugh and said, “I have heard of _a_ Madam Adler. However I find myself quite hoping that my Madam Adler is not the same as your Madam Adler.”

        “Don’t be ridiculous. There is only one Madam Adler. Irene would never tolerate a second one.”

        “Your Madam Adler…”

        “Courtesan,” confirmed Sherlock cheerfully.

        John, despite being acutely aware of the humor of the situation, covered his eyes and wondered what he had done in life to be saddled with Sherlock Holmes. Providence must have decided to exact a sort of revenge on him for some misdeed in his life. The worst part about the entire situation was that John had no desire to repent. On the contrary he very much wanted to ask Sherlock for whatever stories he had. Because there were bound to be stories.

        John dropped his hand to find Sherlock watching him curiously. “How on earth,” asked John, hardly bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice, “did you manage to become acquainted with Madam Adler?”

        “I told you this is hardly the first time I’ve slipped away from my aunt. Irene is actually terribly clever, for an alpha. Besides the alpha who manages to ruin their reputation must be interesting. It is very nearly impossible for an alpha to do that.”`

        “Is she really an alpha? I always found it difficult to believe the law would not have put a stop to her… activities if she were.”

        “Of course she’s an alpha. That is what makes her so very special. When she and her ‘friends’ use scent changing perfumes they apparently have to deal with excessive sweat and”-

        “She asked you to tinker with the formula,” said John flatly. Sherlock nodded absently, having abandoned food in favor of his herbs. “Hm.”

        Sherlock glanced up and smirked, “You disapprove.”

        “Of a young omega spending time with a notorious bit of muslin? Yes, a bit. Isn’t Madam Adler at all concerned about your age?”

        Sherlock snorted, “I was sixteen when I met her, so no, I doubt it.”

        “Poor Victor Trevor,” murmured John. “He will never get another moments rest married to you.”

        “Dull,” said Sherlock dismissively. Then his eyes snapped up to John’s face and narrowed. John said nothing as Sherlock searched his face for several minutes. Finally he said, “You acted differently with the landlord than you do in private.”

        “Do I? I’m not at all surprised,” said John, more interested in his food now. “Most people do.”

        “Yes. However, most people publicly are decent whilst being horrible privately. You do the opposite.”

        John paused, with his fork hovering over his plate, before he slowly looked up at Sherlock. He raised a brow and asked, “You think I was horrible to our landlord?”

        “No. I think you were too forgiving of him being idiotish. You must admit, though, that you behaved differently with him than you did in the coach. Why do you pretend to be haughty and arrogant?”

        “Pretend? William, those are the things I am. You said that you had heard of me before. You must have heard people talking about my being a dastard and a care-for-nothing?”

        “Yes, but people are idiots and they were obviously wrong. You helped me.”

        John looked at Sherlock indulgently. It was painfully obvious that he honestly thought those things of John. There was a part of him that was sorry to have to disillusion Sherlock. “I really didn’t. It was an entirely selfish action on my part.”

        Sherlock waved a hand indifferently at John’s argument. “Obviously. You were running away from something. You could have been selfish all on your own though. Instead you chose to be selfish with me.” John smiled faintly but said nothing. “What were you running from, anyway?”

        “An unwanted engagement.”

        “How does an alpha have an unwanted engagement?” Sherlock asked dubiously. “No one can force you to marry someone.”

        “Your aunt and uncle were trying to force you to marry fish-face? Were they cruel to you?” John asked.

        “Cruel? No. They were tedious though. Aunt Helena would cry and cry all the time and talk about having nursed a viper at her bosom all these years. That has never made sense to me because I don’t think she particularly likes me. All of the crying, and pleas, and lectures were too much though.”

        John nodded, “Yes.”

        Sherlock propped his chin in his hand and studied John carefully. He frowned, “Your family was talking at you and talking at you and _talking_ at you to marry? So you gave in?”

        “To be fair,” said John with a thin smile, “they’ve been talking at me much longer.”

        “So you ran away to assist me?”

        “Yes. I was supposed to have propose to her today.”

        Sherlock winced and said, “Sorry.”

        “Do you know that I am not?” John said thoughtfully. Sherlock gave a small smile but didn’t respond. John stood and said, “I’m going to see if I can’t hunt down a vehicle for us tomorrow”-

        “I’m going with you,” cried Sherlock as he stood up.

        “No.”

        “Yes.”

        “Things will go much more smoothly without a young alpha. Besides did you sleep at all since we began our journey?”

        “Sleep,” spat Sherlock. “Sleep is boring.”

        “You don’t eat or sleep? Lovely. Go to your room and don’t sleep there.”

        “This is _vastly_ unfair! I am an alpha!”

        John leaned forward and murmured, “You smell like an alpha. Anyway stop pretending you want to come with me because you believe it will be a fascinating adventure. You want to give me the slip. Probably so you can scavenge in the garden again.”

        Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times before he snapped it shut and glared at John. He turned on his heel and said, “You are a tyrant, John!”

        “I am a madman,” murmured John to himself. He watched Sherlock go up the stairs and heard the door slam shut. One of the waiters poked his head out of the main room but John ignored him. Instead he stood there for a few minutes listening for sounds of Sherlock sneaking out of his room. When there was nothing John grinned to himself and wondered when the last time was that he had enjoyed himself this much.


	9. Chapter Nine

        No one had wanted to handle the Morstan murder. When the news had come through a good many Runners had found sudden and urgent work in the countryside. Even ambitious young Runners had been reluctant to take part in the investigation. There were few things that could escalate a career as quickly as having a member of the _ton_ support you. However, as happened with far more frequency, there were few things that could sink a career as quickly as offending a member of the _ton_.

        Murders required invasive processes to solve as it was, and the _ton_ found the questioning to be a particular impertinence. Apparently as far as those elegant persons were concerned, having scandal attached to one’s name was worse than actually being murdered. Oh, the _ton_ was titillated to be sure, but they all lived in dread of being at the center of a scandal. As far as these things went murder was rather scandalous.

        Finally Lestrade had been put on the case, with Donovan as his assistant. Lestrade thought it clever of Donovan to volunteer to work as his assistant. Working the case would make for good experience, but if things went wrong then she would not be blamed. In truth Lestrade was relieved to have help at all with the case, since the Morstan’s hadn’t been helpful when they had been interviewed.

        Lady Morstan had sat silently, with watering eyes, and giving little hiccups of despair the entire time, which her maid assured them was a sign of her sensibility. Miss Morstan had sat with her mother, patting the woman’s hand occasionally, and giving answers that didn’t actually mean anything. Sir Robert had been foxed and essentially incoherent. Tom Morstan had been offended by every question asked and alternated between yelling at them for impertinence and exclaiming that not a soul cared that his brother was dead.

        The only useful piece of information Lestrade and Donovan had received was when Sir Robert let slip that he had been expecting a meeting with John Watson. Miss Morstan had quite obviously been annoyed when they pressed for information about the meeting. Eventually she had drawn herself up and said regally, “He had hinted at forming a closer connection between our two families.” Lestrade wondered why she never said anything to the point without covering it up in a bunch of nonsense. However he and Donovan agreed that Mr. Watson’s absence that morning, before news of the death had spread, was suspicious.

        Unfortunately when they went to see Mr. Watson they were very politely informed that he was not at home. Frustrated, but with nothing more than suspicion to press the matter, they left their card with a message for Mr. Watson to contact them. After gathering more information and rumors of Watson having run from Mary Morstan, Lestrade and Donovan agreed they should make an appointment with Albert Thatcher. Neither thought that Mr. Thatcher would have particularly useful information. The purpose was to wheedle a meeting with his wife since it seemed likely that, as Watson’s sister and the Morstan’s longtime friend, she would have information.

        It was very quickly discovered that Michael Morstan’s financials were a disaster, which is why the day after the murder Lestrade was attempting to sort through the records he had managed to retrieve from the solicitor. He was frowning thunderously at the numbers, desperately trying not to jumble them even worse, when Donovan appeared at his side. “Received word back from Thatcher,” she announced without prompting.

        Lestrade raised his brows, surprised with his quick response, and asked, “Well?”

        Donovan held up a sheaf of creamy, thick paper and said impressively, “Mr. Thatcher regrets to inform us that he is by far too busy to deal with the matter.” Lestrade threw his pencil in frustration and grumbled. “However,” continued Donovan dramatically, clearly enjoying herself, “we may interview Mrs. Thatcher, who is a good deal more likely to have the information we want anyway.”

        Lestrade stared at her, dumbfounded. She grinned, apparently satisfied with this response, and carelessly tossed the note on the table. Lestrade picked the note up and read it for himself. “He’s letting us interview her? Alone?”

        “Seems so.”

        “I don’t understand. He’s her alpha. Shouldn’t he want to keep her away from brutes like us?”

        “I thought you said Thatcher was ruled by his omega,” said Donovan. She seemed markedly unimpressed with Mr. Thatcher’s response, though she in general was unimpressed with the gentry.

        “Everybody knows he is. Never thought he didn’t care about her though.”

        Donovan tilted her head thoughtfully and asked, “Are they bonded?”

        “No idea. I doubt it. It shouldn’t matter though. Marriage should’ve been enough for his alpha instincts to take over.”

        “Well,” said Donovan cheekily, “maybe he heard we are particularly trustworthy.”

        Lestrade snorted, “Betas? _And_ Runners on top of it.”

        “I dunno then. Who can say why alphas and omegas do anything?” Donovan shrugged, losing interest in the conversation. “Besides I thought you’d be relieved. What with not having to go through Thatcher to get to Mrs. Thatcher. Makes our job easier.”

        “You don’t have enough experience with omegas,” scoffed Lestrade.

        “And may god keep it that way! Give me a good ole beta any day,” said Donovan. Lestrade rolled his eyes before turning back to his work. “Well? What about Mrs. Thatcher?”

        “Too early. She won’t be awake and it’d be rude. Best not to irritate her before we’ve even managed to say a word to her. We’ll wait an hour.”

        Contrary to Lestrade’s statement, Harriet Thatcher was in fact awake. She was dressed in a shockingly modest nightgown and an elegant pale blue dressing gown, sat at her vanity with a furrow in her brow. It was an uncommonly early hour for Harriet to be awake. After a fitful night of sleep she had abandoned the pretext in favour of brooding. Thus far it had proved useless in helping her solve her problems but she persevered.

        Her maid, Clara, was in the room finding busywork. Harriet was considerably annoyed with her and wished that she would simply be seated. Clara was insistent that she was hired as Harriet’s maid and she would act as such. It seemed a stupid statement to Harriet, considering that Clara was an excellent maid, which was possibly why Clara very rarely allowed Harriet to distract her with special treatment when she was supposed to be busy.

        Finally Harriet shook her head and said, “It’s no use. I can’t think where John has gone.”

        Clara glanced at her without much concern. “Is that what you were trying to do all this time? You should have told me. I thought you were thinking on ways to harass him when Watson returned. If only I had known I could have told you not to bother.”

        Harriet turned sharply in her chair to glare at Clara. Stiffly she asked, “What do you mean?”

        “Only that if Watson has decided to make his escape he’s hardly going to leave you a trail. He’s too clever.”

        “Not that,” said Harriet impatiently. “You think that I’ve been harassing John?”

        “I’ve already told you what I think. You have no reason to pretend at offence now.”

        “Pretend? You think that I need to _pretend_ at offence. You think I harassed John to the point that he ran away! Or is he at the bottom of the Thames, the way Albert is convinced?”

        “I should think Watson would have more sense than to put himself there because of you. Besides,” added Clara thoughtfully, “if he hasn’t done it before now then very likely he never will.”

        “You think I’m a harpy!”

        “I think you’re ridiculous! I told you to leave Watson alone. You never listened! You never listen. Why would you even want him to marry a Morstan?”

        “They’ve been good friends of our family for years. Papa always meant to make an arrangement”-

        “Until he realised exactly how much bad blood is in the Morstan family,” cut in Clara sternly. “You don’t even like the Morstan’s well. You do realise that Miss Morstan would be your sister-in-law? She would be the mother of your nieces and nephews. If that didn’t put you off the entire scheme I don’t know what will.”

        Harriet’s mouth tightened and she said, “It is time John marry” –

        “He’s still young, Harry! He has loads of time to marry and to breed. Why are you being so bothersome about him marrying? If Watson were to die today both you and Mrs. Watson would be perfectly secure for longer than your lifespan is likely to be. Why did you have to convince your mother it was important for him to marry immediately?”

        The two glared at each other for several seconds before Harriet huffed and turned away. In her mirror she saw Clara continuing to stare at her so said, “I can’t bear the thought of everything going to my cousin.”

        Clara scoffed, unimpressed, and turned away. She said, flatly, “Oh, yes.”

        “You don’t care about that?” Harriet demanded hotly.

        “I stopped caring about things like that when I stopped going to balls.”

        Harriet flushed up at the reminder and said nothing whilst she fidgeted with the items on her vanity. Presently she said, in a changed voice, “Clara”-

        “Excuse me, Harry, I have things to attend to.”

        It was lie, not even a particularly good lie, but Clara knew Harriet would not stop her. Harriet pressed her eyes tightly shut and sat where she was for a long time after Clara left. She felt a headache approaching as pressure formed behind her eyes but she made no move. After her back began to ache from the strain of being hunched over Harriet stood suddenly. She crossed the room and poured herself a drink. Clara would be annoyed but Clara had left and Harriet had never been accused of being an especially gracious person.

        By the time Clara returned the glass at Harriet’s elbow was empty with Harriet still deep in thought. Harriet turned her head in Clara’s direction but made no other move. “There are Bow Street Runners here to see you, Harry.”

        Harriet blinked at this unexpected announcement. She frowned, “They asked for me? Why didn’t they ask for Albert?”

        Clara crossed the room and handed over a folded piece of paper. “They received a note from Thatcher suggesting they contact you.”

        “Hmm,” murmured Harriet as she glanced over the note. “That does sound important, doesn’t it? No matter, I would vastly prefer to speak to them myself. Lord knows what nonsense Albert would say to them. He’d spend the entire interview babbling about the Thames and such. Bring them to me please.”

        Clara jerked slightly at this pronouncement. She frowned, “To your dressing room?” She eyed Harriet’s dressing gown pointedly.

        “Yes, and I desire you to stay during their visit.”

        Clara hesitated a moment before she left. Harriet wasn’t much impressed with Clara’s disapproval since Clara was something of a prig. Harriet stayed at her vanity, frowning at herself in the mirror, until Clara returned with the Runners.

        Harriet stood to greet them, noting their uneasy faces and thought it served them right. The male runner looked vaguely tired and harassed as he entered the room. The female runner seemed much more composed although the stiffness in her posture loudly spoke of her disapproval of the meeting place.

        “I am Harriet Thatcher, though of course you are well aware. Please,” she gestured to a settee to her right, “be seated.”

        “Ah, thank you ma’am,” said the male runner uneasily. “This really isn’t necessary though. If you, er, need time”-

        “No. Now is fine,” said Harriet. “How may I help you?”

        The male runner looked uncertain but the female runner said, “We’re Donovan and Lestrade, ma’am. With the Bow Street Runners.”

        “Yes.”

        Lestrade and Donovan glanced at each other at this unhelpful statement. Reluctantly they sat on the settee and Lestrade said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, ma’am, about Michael Morstan”-

        “Yes,” interrupted Harriet. “It’s the most shocking news! I hardly believed it when Thomas Morstan told my husband and me about it.”

        “Well, Donovan and I are investigating his death. We were hoping to ask you a few questions.” Lestrade glanced at Clara and added, “Alone.”

        “Clara stays,” insisted Harriet. She ignored the Runners’ perturbed look and continued, “I honestly don’t know how I can be of any help to you. Surely you don’t think my husband or I had anything to do with Mr. Morstan’s unfortunate death?”

        Lestrade smiled tightly. “We just have a few questions. There’s no telling but you have information that might be useful. Sometimes things that don’t seem to matter are most important.”

        Donovan seemed annoyed by these words but said nothing. Harriet glanced between the two and raised her brows. “Well, I shall certainly offer any assistance possible.”

        “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll try to be as delicate as possible during our questioning.” Harriet was rather more amused than grateful at this statement. Donovan bristled next to him but Lestrade was adept at pretending at obliviousness. “Were you well acquainted with the deceased?”

        “We grew up around each other, to be sure, but we were never particular friends. Our families were close when I was a child so we were occasionally in each other’s company.”

        “Do you know of anyone who would wish for Mr. Morstan’s death?”

        “No. Of course not.”

        “Do you know of any reason someone would wish for Mr. Morstan’s death?”

        “No. If I do not know of anyone wishing for his death, why would I know a reason someone would wish for his death?”

        “What about his debts?” Donovan cut in.

        Harriet raised her brows at Donovan and glanced back at Lestrade, as though checking that she had heard correctly. She pursed her mouth thoughtfully and asked, “I beg your pardon?”

        “Mr. Morstan had debts. Do you think someone would want him dead because of that?”

        “I honestly couldn’t say. I don’t concern myself with money and I certainly wouldn’t bother myself over Michael Morstan’s accounts.”

        “So you are unaware of his debts from gambling?”

        “I avoid gossip,” said Harriet. Clara coughed from across the room causing the Runners to look at her, but her face was impassive.

        “Well,” said Lestrade, “that’s very amendable of you, Mrs. Thatcher. Does knowledge of your brother, John Watson, count as gossip? He wasn’t at home, although the butler couldn’t tell us why. Can you tell us if Mr. Watson ever provided Mr. Morstan with a loan? Or if it was his intention to propose to Miss Morstan?”

        Harriet smiled politely. “As I said, I don’t concern myself with money”-

        “I find that interesting,” said Donovan sharply. Lestrade gave her a warning look as Harriet raised a brow. Donovan altered her tone slightly and continued, “Since it’s widely known that you take care of your husband’s accounts.”

        Harriet looked between the two incredulously and said, “I see now why you assumed I gossip. If your work is based on gossip, you must expect everyone to partake. Honestly, you believe an omega would be in control of the accounts?”

        “I believe the truth,” insisted Donovan.

        “Oh, I begin to understand. And you also believe, I take it, that if one says something then one must also be telling the truth? Rumors are not always true. Regardless, I can assure you that I had no interest in any of the Morstan’s accounts. Or my brother’s for that matter.”

        “Were you aware of your brother’s intention to propose marriage to Miss Morstan?” Lestrade asked before Donovan could comment.

        “He didn’t confide in me, no. I think it would be rather odd if he had though. However I do know that it’s been an open secret for years that our families desire the match.”

        Lestrade made a note and his brow furrowed. “Hm. Do you have any idea why Mr. Watson would have missed a meeting with Sir Robert today?”

        “I’m sure that was an oversight. He can be fretfully forgetful at times. There was an emergency at one of the Watson estates.”

        The Runners stared at her for a moment before exchanging a glance with each other. Finally Donovan asked, “Which estate is he at?”

        Harriet blinked at them and said, “He didn’t tell me, or if he did I cannot remember.”

        Lestrade smiled thinly as he made another note. Donovan did not seem particularly good at hiding her annoyances, or she simply did not care, and Harriet thought she would probably offend half the _ton._ “Is there anything else,” asked Lestrade. “Anything at all, no matter how insignificant it may seem?”

        Harriet feigned thought for several minutes before she shook her head. She smiled vaguely and said, “No. Do you have more questions?”

        “None for you,” said Lestrade. Harriet stood but the Runners, as one, turned to Clara.  “What was your name, miss?”

        She glanced at Harriet momentarily before answering stiffly, “Clara.”

        “Your surname, if you please.”

        “Thatcher.” Lestrade and Donovan raised their brows and looked between the two women questioningly. Harriet was determined to ignore the looks. No wonder Tom had been astounded by the Runners impertinence. Clara said, “I am an omega maid. Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher were gracious enough to provide me with their surname.”

        “What was your surname before Thatcher?”

        “I did not have one.”

        “What I mean is”-

        “My family disowned me, Mr. Lestrade,” said Clara sharply. “There is no record of me. My surname before Thatcher was nonexistent. It hardly matters though because I can assure you my name has nothing to do with poor Mr. Morstan’s death. Since Mr. Morstan did not have a lady’s maid I honestly don’t know much about him. I am sorry.”

        Donovan and Lestrade seemed dissatisfied by this response but they stood and made their good-byes. Clara showed the two out and Harriet remained where she stood. After staring unseeingly at the opposite wall for several minutes she moved suddenly. She poured herself another drink, set it on her vanity, and went in search of supplies.

        When Clara returned Harriet was studiously writing a note and her drink was half empty. Clara picked the glass up and asked, “How many does this make this morning?”

        “What does that matter? Here. I need these delivered immediately. One to Miss Morstan and one to Mamma. Then I need packed.”

        Clara looked up from the notes and asked, “Where are you going?”

        “We are going to Thatcherly. Tell Lewis to pack Albert’s things too. I want to leave tomorrow as early as possible so if Albert is not back by a decent time tonight then it’s up Lewis to fetch him.”

        “You want to go to Thatcherly now? You think the Morstan’s will want to leave for Thatcherly? What about Michael’s funeral?”

        “That’s not for a week. They won’t want to have it until Newbury is back and he isn’t due back for another week at least. By the end of the week John will be home.”

        Clara stared at Harriet, dumbfounded. “They’re waiting a week? I don’t understand, Harry. Why do you want to go to Thatcherly now? What do you think that will help?”

        “Well it will get us away from the Runners, won’t it? They’ll have to travel to talk to any of us and it’s not as though any of us are the murderer. Besides this way no one think anything odd has occurred between our families. We can set it about that it was all a silly misunderstanding and when John returns he can propose.”

        “Harry”-

        “Please! Just do as I say!”

        Clara looked down at the notes in her hand, hesitating for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” said Clara as she left. Harriet flinched and stared at the door for far longer than she had the time to.

        Outside as the Runners walked down the Thatcher’s street Donovan huffed, “That was a complete waste of our time. I would swear everyone wanted the murderer to get away with the crime if I didn’t know any better. Do you honestly think Watson is at one estates?”

        “No. I have no idea what is happening but I don’t think she did either. Still, we had better check at his estates.”

        “Do you think he knows something? Or do you think he is the murderer?”

        Lestrade shrugged, “Who can say? I don’t want to miss though just because we were lazy. Get two or three of the new to go around to the estates. Tell them to try to draw notice to themselves and if they see Watson send word.”

        “What? Are we not going to the estates?”

        Lestrade laughed, “You obviously do not know how many estates Watson owns.”

        Donovan grinned, “Oh what and you do? Reading the gossip columns again?” Lestrade rolled his eyes but didn’t respond otherwise. After a moment Donovan asked, “What do you think of the maid? It’s odd they gave her their surname.”

        “Yes. It will protect her though.”

        “So you aren’t concerned?”

        “Donovan, have you seen how some disowned omegas live? Besides it’s been implied”-

        “I know what’s implied. I just didn’t think it was true until I found out they gave her their surname.” Lestrade shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned. After a moment Donovan asked, “Are we not going to do anything then?”

        “Do? What would we do? Miss Thatcher seemed well enough,” said Lestrade carelessly. He glanced at Donovan, glaring viciously at him, and sighed. “Fine. If after we’ve solved this murder you’re still suspicious we can look into it. Very, very quietly. For now though we need to find a murderer.”

        Donovan was slightly mollified by this. Then she asked, bitterly, “You’re going to write to _him_ ,aren’t you?”

        Lestrade looked vaguely embarrassed and shrugged. “He’s always right.”


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since the last chapter! I wish I was publishing a super clever chapter to make up for the long absence, but it's a pretty ordinary chapter. 
> 
> I'm using a different laptop than normal because my laptop is having issues (part of the reason it's been so long since I updated) and that's why this chapter looks different than the others.

 

 

 

In Sherlock's experience, people needed very little evidence to believe that something was true. Sherlock frequently found himself furious and agonizing over other people's inability to think. Since it seemed as though he was incessantly surrounded  by idiots he had developed the habit of using other people's limited thinking abilities to his own advantage. It took almost no effort on his part to convince the people surrounding him that he very rarely ate or slept. This myth of his was, of course, helped by the fact that when he was caught up in an experiment or investigation he very often genuinely forgot about those things.

Convincing Humphrey and Aunt Helena that he survived and thrived on little sustenance and sleep served very little actual purpose. Mostly it just meant that Humphrey eyed Sherlock with a sort of wary respect; Humphrey considered overindulgence in food to be an essential part of a gentleperson of leisure. Aunt Helena generally blamed any 'eccentric' behavior of Sherlock's on his improper diet and sleeping habits, which was the only other way Sherlock could reasonably claim the lie helped him.

Sherlock had told John about his lack of interest in sleeping or eating primarily out of habit. The interesting thing about John was that he had thrown an apple at Sherlock and told him to eat It, but had done nothing but look vaguely annoyed when Sherlock gave it away. John made Sherlock go to his room but he did not insist that Sherlock sleep. John had yet to force Sherlock to eat or sleep. When Sherlock stole food off of John's plate, John made no comment.

In fact John lamented Sherlock's manners, but he did not seem to mind it overly much. Sherlock noticed John's mouth twitch or a light enter John's eyes when he was particularly amused by Sherlock. John always seemed to be polite (sometimes overly so in Sherlock's opinion), but sometimes Sherlock managed to make him laugh, always quickly covered with a cough, and those were Sherlock's favorite times. John Watson was, in fact, an interesting alpha .

The morning after Sherlock's exploration of the herb garden, he was unsurprised to find John Watson dominated his thoughts rather than his experiment. John was a much cleverer individual than most Sherlock had met. It also seemed as though John genuinely enjoyed Sherlock's, so-called, shenanigans, which was nearly completely unprecedented. 

Of course it was understandable, to a point at least, that a man who had fantasised about a military career would appreciate chaos.  Sherlock wondered if John would keep the acquaintance or if he would be glad to be rid of Sherlock once their trip was finished. It would be useful to have someone with medical knowledge around and, for all that John was not a doctor, he had a surprising amount of solid medical knowledge. 

Sherlock's thoughts remained firmly on John Watson as Sherlock dressed and added the necessary scent perfume. When he left his room Sherlock went straight to the back garden, even though he had gotten more than enough herbs. Particularly since Sherlock thought it was likely that John would forbid any more herbs in Sherlock's luggage. Still, Sherlock was interested in it and no one else was awake hardly. Besides there was also the chance that there would be wildlife - bees or birds - and Sherlock did not mind making a study of their habits. 

So it was that Sherlock was crouched low in the garden,  making studious notes when the commotion began. Rather than make himself known, as he arguably should have done, Sherlock stayed low and watched the beta gentlewomen. One was red faced and dabbing at her snotty nose with a kerchief. The other frowned furiously and slammed the door shut.

The furious one hissed, "I cannot believe you allowed this to happen."

"It is not  _my_  fault, Judith," shouted the other. "How am I supposed to know what happened to It?"

"You were the one in charge of watching It! I only asked you to do this one thing out of the whole of the plan, which is considerate of since it was your idea"-

"My idea! It wasn't  _my_  idea!" The red faced one shrieked. " _You_  are the one forever going on about money! I care that much for money," said with a snap of her fingers.

"Oh yes," said Judith grimly. "I am familiar with how much you do not care for money. I imagine that's how you managed to find yourself without a feather to fly with. No doubt your papa taught you well."

"Gentlewomen should not think of money. It's vulgar," sniffed the wife.

Judith grabbed her by the arms and spoke just loud enough for Sherlock to hear her. "We are not gentlewomen. We are on the brink of ruination and, if we don't find It, we may very well end up dead."

Her wife blanched and gasped, "Dead? You can't think - Judith?"

"There's no time for more hysterics," snapped Judith, turning away. "We will go to the last Inn and see if you left It there."

Judith's wife seemed unable to move  for several minutes. Presently she said, "It's beastly of you to blame this on me!"

"Well it was beastly of you to bring this all about! Get in the carriage, if you please."

"I do please," announced Judith's wife, the mockery escaping her notice. " _Not_  because you desire it though. I please because"-

"You don't wish to die," interrupted Judith, ruthlessly. "Clever you." Judith climbed in behind her wife and slammed the carriage door shut.

After the carriage had left the yard Sherlock stood, tucked his notepad into the inside pocket of his coat, and stared after it. He supposed the betas had expected it to be too early for anyone to be around to eavesdrop on them. Idiotic of them, but convenient for Sherlock. He wondered what the mysterious 'It' could be and, perhaps more importantly, who would want them dead for losing it. Sherlock wondered how many Inns there were in the direction the carriage had gone in, that were a only a day's ride away.

The door opened again and John said, "I suppose it was too much to have expected you to stay in your room until an appropriate hour."

Sherlock blinked, adjusting his mind from his mind to the world, then turned to face John. He beamed at John and asked "Did you see the betas," even though he did not actually know how long he had been standing in the garden.

John frowned, "No. Why are you interested in them? Did they leave or arrive?"

"Leave," answered Sherlock as he trampled over to John. "Also, I wasn't interested in them so much as I was interested in what was happening to them. They've lost something and Judith fears they're going to die."

"Judith?" John repeated blankly.

"Yes. She seemed the more sensible of the two, although she got herself mixed up with someone who may want to kill her, so, how sensible can she truly be? They were going back to an Inn they stayed at before coming here. It shouldn't be more than a day's journey away I should think. John"-

"No," cut in John. "I am not traveling backwards an entire day just because you believe some betas lost something that you can find."

"But they fear for their  _lives_ ,  John. Does that mean nothing to you?" Sherlock asked. He clasped his hands to his heart and said, pathetically, " _You_  could never stand by and allow harm to come to innocents."

John eyed Sherlock's pose unimpressed. "Couldn't I?"

"Of course not. You are by far too decent of a man."

"Am I? Curious. Well anyway, they could hardly be innocents if someone wants to kill them. In all likelihood they stole whatever it is they lost for someone else. They..." John trailed off, distracted, then glared at Sherlock sternly. "How did you find out about the betas' dilemma? Surely they wouldn't have confided in a stranger."

"Oh. Well ..." Sherlock waved his hand in vague explanation. "You know how these things come about."

"Often with eavesdropping and spying," said John dryly. Sherlock flushed slightly but stared back defiantly. "So, just so that I am understanding everything perfectly, I can be so stupid you know, you want me to travel with you an entire day in the wrong direction, so that you can offer your services to thieves who very likely do not want your help?"

Sherlock pouted, "You are being unreasonable."

"I handled you destroying my reputation all over the English countryside with complacency."

"It was  _a_  John Watson, not  _the_  John Watson," grumbled Sherlock as an aside.

John ignored him. "When you managed to get us thrown out of a coach and our journey was slowed even further, I was very understanding."

"I didn't know she would actually believe me," insisted Sherlock.

Again, John ignored him. "I have been very indulgent of you. I am not purposefully delaying us more than a full day. We are continuing our journey immediately following breakfast."

"The betas' fear for their lives though. Don't you  _care_  about that?"

"Do  _you_  care about that?" John asked sardonically.

Sherlock opened his mouth, then clicked it shut. He offered, "I might."

John shook his head and chuckled. "I will write a letter and send it by messenger to the Runners. I will warn them that a pair of betas might be in trouble. Will that satisfy you?"

"Oh," gasped Sherlock. "That might actually work. He'll be so annoyed." Sherlock smiled hugely and said, "Yes. I will write the letter though."

John frowned, "Is this another of your "friends" you met whilst you were out alone?"

"Something of that nature."

"Fine. Come inside, brat," said John, opening the door. "I've ordered breakfast."

Sherlock hesitated then asked, suspiciously, "Are you going to throw another apple at me?"

"Are you going to ask me if I have gout again?"

"It was a rational question. Irene says gout is a common problem for gentlemen of leisure."

"Men in their fifties."

"Well she never said that. Most people aren't murdered by gout so I've never needed to learn about it. Besides," added Sherlock artlessly, "I wasn't listening very closely to Irene when she spoke of it."

John laughed, which was why Sherlock might be excused for not immediately noticing the older beta in the hallway. By the time Sherlock realised he was there Sherlock had nearly run into the older man. The beta smiled, "Beg pardon."

Sherlock said nothing, staring intently at the man, so John said, "We beg your pardon, of course. Excuse us."

"You was the one in the garden, wasn't you?" The beta asked Sherlock. "I seen you looking at the vegetables."

"Herbs. Did you see the beta women?"

"No. Should I of?" 

Sherlock scoffed, annoyed this beta wouldn't be helpful in convincing John to follow after the wives, and shrugged. The beta was undeterred. "What was you doing with the vegetables? Are you interested in farming?"

"I am interested in science." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and asked, "Why are you interested in me?"

John watched the encounter and cursed Sherlock's luck at always finding the exact person one most wished to stay away from. A petty thief with a decent enough accent was not John's ideal breakfast partner. He knew with unshakable certainty that that was exactly where this conversation was leading. John said, softly, "William."

"You was in the  garden when everybody should of  been asleep," answered the beta, not hearing - or perhaps ignoring - John. "Wondered what would get a young alpha outta bed so early." The beta glanced at John and added, "But I wouldn' want to bofer you coves."

Abruptly Sherlock asked, "Would you like to join us? We have a private parlour." It was as John had expected but he could not help himself from glaring furiously at Sherlock.

"Don' want to be a bofer," repeated the beta.

Sherlock waved a hand carelessly, unperturbed  by John's annoyance. "Not at all. I have a letter to write first so perhaps you could fetch the waiter? "

The beta gave his cap a mockingly submissive tip and said, "Aye."

John remained silent as he followed Sherlock to their private parlour and firmly shut the door. Sherlock had already crossed the room to search for parchment and pen when John turned. Quietly John said, "Do you think that was wise?"

" It's brilliant! He's an interesting character. He's obviously a thief"-

"Oh good, you noticed," drawled John. John crossed the room and withdrew the supplies from a desk by a window in the room, handing them over to Sherlock.

"Ah! Thank you. Of course I noticed. He's not nearly as clever as he seems to think he is. Although I will grant that he's cleverer than most ordinary thieves. He at least tries to disguise his accent. I'm hoping that the more I talk to him the more he'll let that slip. I'd love to have more research on thieves cant. Always useful. D'you think he'll try to pickpocket us?"

"That idea should not fill you with glee," chided John. "Apart from the potential  theft, don't you think we have other reasons for not wanting someone in close proximity to you?"

"No," answered Sherlock absently. He frowned over his letter and added, as an afterthought, "Why should I?"

"Are you intentionally being thick or"-

"John," complained Sherlock. He hadn't thought that John would honestly answer him. "I am trying to write a letter."

John took a deep breath in an attempt to keep his temper controlled. "You," he pointed out, "are also very poorly dressed as an alpha."

"Well, these are Humphrey's clothes. I can hardly help that."

"That's clever; you're very clever. Not actually the point I was trying to impress upon you." John watched Sherlock continue to be absorbed in his letter. After a moment John bit out, "William?"

"He isn't going to realise, John. He isn't nearly clever enough for that. I am trying to finish this letter," Sherlock paused to look up at John, "if you don't mind."

John crossed the room and sat at the table. He watched the back of Sherlock's head as Sherlock hunched over the desk to scribble on the parchment. It was probably going to end up being mostly illegible. It was several minutes before the older beta and a waiter entered the room. The beta spotted John first and smiled ingratingly at him; John bowed his head in acknowledgement, not particularly interested in being polite. 

Sherlock jumped to his feet and said, "Excellent. I've just this moment finished my letter." He held it out to John, who was certain it would be entirely illegible. "Here. Sit please. I asked you to dine with us because I thought a well-traveled beta, such as yourself, would have interesting stories."

"Well-traveled?"

"Yes. I'm Mr. Scott and he's," Sherlock turned to where John had been seated only to find him not there. Sherlock frowned, glancing around the room. "Already taking care of my letter, apparently. You are?"

"Hope. I  don' mind telling some stories, so long as I get some of yours."

"As you pointed out earlier I'm a boy. What stories could I have that would interest you?"

Hope smiled, "Oh I'm sure you can fink of something."

Sherlock watched him silently as he considered and Hope studied him in return. Hope was a mildly interesting criminal, certainly enough to entertain during breakfast, but Sherlock wondered what Hope thought he would get out of the arrangement. Surely Hope was after more than breakfast and a pickpocket. As John returned Sherlock smiled and answered, "Deal."


	11. Chapter Eleven

John did not participate in the conversation between Sherlock and Hope, despite the beta occasionally trying to include him. He did not trust Hope. His distrust stemmed from more than Hope being an obvious criminal, but also because of his inter e st  in Sherlock. There was no reason for it and it made John uneasy. John was still hoping that Sherlock's status as an omega would not come out during their journey. Hope seemed like a threat to that possibility.

Sherlock had been right about Hope though. The more Hope talked, the more  he forgot himself and spoke with his genuine accent . John reluctantly admitted to himself that it was impressive seeing Sherlock manipulate Hope into telling more stories.  Since Hope seemed to believe that he was being clever in getting Sherlock talk, the manipulation was especially impressive. John would wager that most, if not all, of the things Sherlock said were outrageous lies, which was too bad for Hope. 

Once John had finished his breakfast he stood and said, "Excuse me. I have to check on our vehicle. Scott, if you are not prepared to leave then I suggest you take care of that now."

Sherlock nodded impatiently with a wave of his hand. Hope watched John leave and said, "A prig, ain't 'e?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at Hope, who was still watching John. Then he stood and smiled brightly, his face wrinkling ridiculously, and said, "Not at all. I think he just doesn't like you."

Hope chuckled, "You'll 'urt my feelings."

"I doubt it," replied Sherlock, crossing to stand by the window. 

Hope was silent for several minutes. He wisely remained seated, although he asked, "Where're you off to, then?"

Sherlock stayed at the window, wishing he hadn't invited Hope to dine with them. He had turned out to be more cloyingly obsessed than Sherlock had originally assumed. The only reason Sherlock could think of for this obsession, was that Hope had  realised which John Watson he was in the company of, and was hoping to steal from him. The landlord had likely said something indiscreet, bragging to anyone who would listen. 

Blandly Sherlock asked, "Why? Are you going to follow us?"

"No. Why? Worried you'll miss ole Hope?"

Sherlock flickered a smile to himself at Hope's audacity. One of the few good things about Hope was that he occasionally amused Sherlock. Although usually it was unintentional. Before he could respond to that statement Sherlock's attention was caught by the scene outside. Someone was riding into the Inn's yard. Sherlock watched them even as Hope again asked where they were traveling. Sherlock watched the newcomer intently but replied, "Bath."

"Bath? What's there?"

"My mother," lied Sherlock easily. "She suffers from arthritis and drinks the waters there. Watson was tasked with taking me to her." Sherlock wondered for a moment if he should say something to Hope about the new guest or not. Hope seemed harmless enough so Sherlock thought he would.

"You'll break yer mofer's heart."

"Doubtful. You should leave though." Sherlock turned from the window  in time to see Hope startle. "There's a Bow Street Runner just arrived. I couldn't say why she's here, but I imagine you do not want to meet her."

Hope  stared in surprise for a moment then grinned. "You're a knowing one , ain't you, cove?"

"Hmm.  I'll see if I can distract her for you. Good-bye Hope."

"Oh aye, Mr. Scott," said Hope gratefully. With a brief nod Sherlock slipped out of the room, leaving his and John's cloaks behind to fetch later. 

The Runner was in the public dining room so Sherlock paused in the doorway to study her. She was allowing the landlord to serve her a drink and was obviously trying to imitate a relaxed manner. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the impression, then schooled his features into his best impression of innocence and entered the room. The landlord was visibly distressed by Sherlock's presence, but Sherlock ig nored h im. Instead he asked, confidentially, "You're a Runner, aren't you? What are you doing here?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, frowning. Sherlock stared back guilessly. Finally she said, "Aye. How'd you know?"

"It's obvious. You are not very good at hiding." Sherlock leant forward, hoping he portrayed youthful eagerness and not professional eagerness. "Why are you here?"

"What d'you mean 'obvious'?"

"I already answered one of your questions. You're supposed to answer one of mine."

"Who are you?"

Sherlock growled in frustration. Why could she not simply answer his questions? "He's my nephew," answered John, entering the room, "and he's a nucience. You'll have to forgive him."

"Who are  you ?" The Runner demanded.

"His uncle," replied John smoothly. He was rewarded with Sherlock's eyes twinkling at him. "You are?"

"Gregson. I  _am_   a Bow Street Runner, though I was no' plannin' on tellin' no one yet." Sherlock snorted but, after a sharp look from John, tried to cover it with a cough. Gregson frowned at him during his lengthy coughing fit. He finished dramatically bent over whilst John admirably maintained a solemn face, mostly because John refused to look away from the Runner. Gregson looked between the two speculatively before she said, "You're 'is uncle? You don't look like relations."

"Don't we? How inconvenient. Shall I contact my solicitor and have him provide you with my genealogical records? Would that satisfy your curio sity? Although, before I do that, perhaps you could satisfy mine. You see I can't quite understand why a Runner is interested in my family's history."

Gregson flushed slightly and stammered, "No. I - no." She straightened and said, firmly, "I am 'ere on official business for Julian Newbury of Staple Manor."

At the name John's posture altered, although it was so minute that Gregson did not realise. Sherlock tried to catch John's eye but he refused. Annoyed, Sherlock asked Gregson, "Why would Newbury hire a Runner?"

"D'you know Mr. Newbury?"

"Not at all. I know of Staple Manor, of course. What circumstances could there be that would  cause Newbury to hire a Runner?"

"Well," huffed Gregson. "Mr. Newbury 'ad a very valuable family heirloom stolen. A necklace."

Sherlock glanced at John, but he seemed content to watch the scene play out before him. His indifference was obviously, to Sherlock's eyes at least, feigned. It aggravated Sherlock that he did not know what was upsetting John. He chose to focus on the potential case and said, "It must have been very valuable necklace indeed, for Mr. Newbury to go through so much trouble."

"Oh no," said  Gregson in a conspiratorial tone, apparently having decided neither Sherlock nor John were the thief, "it ain't the necklace. A rela tive of 'is was murdered so 'e's worried. Don' see why though. How could a necklace and a murder be connected? 'Specially when Mr. Newbury was a Staple Manor and the murder happened in London."

The explanation in Sherlock's opinion was very long and left out most of the important details. He let her speak without interruption in the hopes that she would be more willing to answer his questions. Still, he couldn't quite keep his impatience out of his voice when he asked,  "Who was murdered?"

" Sir Robert Morstan's eldest son, Mr. Michael Morstan," answered Gregson.

"You are looking for the thie f, I presume?" John asked.  Sherlock frowned at him. The murder was more important than the stolen necklace; why distract from it?

"Aye. Doubt I'll find 'em. I'd think they fenced the damned thing by now."

"There were two beta gentlewomen earlier," interrupted Sherlock, "I saw them in the back garden. They were complaining of losing something. They left this morning in a hurry."

Gregson frowned, "Well?"

"Well? Isn't it a possibility that they were the thie ves? If so then they have a considerable head  start on you."

"Jus' cause some betas said they lost somefing don' mean they're the thieves," pointed out Gregson. "Can't see how they'd have anything to do with one another."

"True," said John abruptly. "However, if you  are  here looking for a potential thief, I have a suggestion. The man who breakfasted with us was an unsavory sort. Questioning him may prove useful."

Sherlock schooled his face to hide his surprise that John had revealed Hope so quickly. He had expected John to bring Hope up at some point, just not so soon. Although John had quite clearly been disturbed by the news of Newbury and Morstan. Sherlock wished he knew why, but since Gregson seemed unwilling to listen to Sherlock about the beta gentlewomen, he deemed it wiser to keep his silence.

"I remember 'im," said the landlord. Sherlock frowned at his contribution, irritated by it. "Didn't think he was good company for the young 'un, but wasn't my place. I ain't the kind to speak where I should no'."

"It was an adventure."

"Where is the man now?" Gregson demanded.

John looked to Sherlock for the answer, Gregson and the landlord following suit. Sherlock hesitated, not so much out of loyalty, as because he knew Gregson would not let him assist her. Still he said, "He went out the back door immediately before I left the private parlour."

Gregson stood, looking eagerly towards the door, almost as though she expected to see Hope there. It was obvious that she was halfway convinced that she had managed to find the necklace culprit. "Obliged."

Sherlock frowned after her, annoyed that he had been unable to question her about the murder. The landlord spoke before Sherlock was able, however. His face scrunched he asked, "What is that?"

"Gregson, I would imagine," answered John. The abrupt subject change bewildered Sherlock so he could only stare at them. John stood, his posture tense, and said impatiently, "Fetch your luggage. I'll retrieve our cloaks."

Sherlock longed to argue with John and convince him to follow any of the betas or Gregson. There was something havey cavey going on and Sherlock was desperate to know what. He kept his silence though, because John was still unaccountably uneasy from the encounter with Gregson. The landlord watching them curiously and his being aware that this was  the  John Watson also contributed to Sherlock's silence.

Sherlock rehearsed the affronted speech he would give John, mouthing the words to himself, on the way to his room. It was not until he had shut the door to his room that Sherlock flushed vividly. He still smelled like an alpha but his natural scent was only just detectable. His body had betrayed him; his scent surfacing as his emotions had. Normally the perfume masked his scent better, although this was hardly the first time his natural scent had begun to surface. It was more humiliating because it had happened in front of John. It was also a perfect example why Sherlock was determined to create his own perfume. 

Annoyed, Sherlock reapplied the perfume whilst grumbling to himself. He paused in front of the mirror when he finished and sta red at himself. At his ill-fitting alpha clothes and his slicked back hair. He was a terrible alpha and he had no desire to be one. He was not much bothered by his status as an omega, but he knew other people minded. Even if omegas were given respect the way alphas were, Sherlock knew that was not the only problem. No one seemed to like who Sherlock was very much. Even Irene seemed to find him mostly amusing and intellectually stimulating. Sherlock was not certain she liked him, just as he was not certain that he liked her. 

Inexplicably John Watson seemed to find him tolerable. Sometimes when Sherlock made John laugh, he thought John Watson might like him. A bit.

Not that it mattered. 

Victor Trevor had liked Sherlock fine when they had been children. Victor had been Sherlock's closest (not to mention only) friend. It had been years since they had last seen or communicated with one another, but Sherlock was confident things had not changed. It was unthinkable.

After several minutes Sherlock chided his reflection, "Don't be an idiot." With a determined nod of his head he gathered his things and left the room.

Gregson was just riding out of the yard when Sherlock finally exited the Inn. John squinted after her and murmured, "Where was Hope off to then?"

Sherlock stood beside John, watching Gregson as well, and shrugged. "He did not say, but I imagine Bath."

"Why?"

"I told him that was where we were going."

John barked a laugh and Sherlock grinned at him. "In the carriage, brat."

The carriage, which Sherlock had dismissed upon first spotting it, was directly behind John. It was ancient and quite possibly would collapse if one breathed too strongly near it, and had an even more ancient and decrepit looking driver. The driver tipped his hat to Sherlock whilst John gestured grandly. Sherlock stared, horrified, and demanded, " _That_   is our vehicle?"

"Yes."

"I - why? Shouldn't you have gotten something more... sporting?"

"Oh, did you want a sporting vehicle? You should have said," said John with a chastising air. "With all of the many choices Country life has to offer in the way of vehicles, well I was spoilt with options. I assumed you wanted something that might collapse on you."

"Are you attempting humour," asked Sherlock, unimpressed, "or are you lecturing me?"

"Both. Go on, then." Sherlock glared at his dramatically cheerful tone. "Well? It isn't as though you have never been thrown from a carriage before. I am quite certain a carriage collapsing on you is not much different."

There seemed to be no reply to that as far as Sherlock could tell, so he lifted his chin and boarded the carriage with his  haughtiest manner possible. The volume of John's laughter, in Sherlock's opinion, negated any supposed nobility on John's part for waiting to laugh until Sherlock was seated in the carriage. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John when he entered but did not remark. 

The carriage had just left the Inn's yard when Sherlock sighed loudly. John, ever the gentleman, ignored him. Sherlock sighed louder. John ignored him. Sherlock threw himself across the carriage seat and groaned in agony. John looked at him with vague interest. With sardonic p oliteness  he asked, "Is there something bothering you, William?"

"We should have followed one of the betas. Or at the least the Runner. It would have been an adventure!"

"We haven't even finished the adventure we are currently on," pointed out John.

Sherlock frowned. "We could have finished this one after we found out what the betas lost, or who stole Newbury's necklace, or why Hope was so interested in you. It wouldn't have taken much more time."

Sherlock picked at a loose thread from the seat, aimless and sulky. John firmly reminded himself that he was not being cruel in refusing Sherlock's request. Then he tilted his head and asked, "You think Hope was interested in me?"

"Obvious," replied Sherlock grudgingly.

John found that opinion odd since Hope had been much more interested in Sherlock than John. Of course Hope had tried to engage John in conversation. That had seemed more of a way for Hope to bring attention to his victory in dining with them, than interest however. John had not hidden his annoyance very well. Still there seemed to be little point in arguing the matter with Sherlock. Instead he said, "I would have thought that you would be more interested in finishing this adventure. Do you not want to be under Trevor's protection?"

"I am under  _your_   protection."

"True, however _my_ protection is useless against fish-face and your aunt. In fact, I believe my involvement is - well, deranged, if nothing else. A husband will offer better protection." John pretended interest in his cuticles whils t Sherlock seemed uninterested in the conversation at all.

Presently Sherlock said, "Well anyway, it doesn't really matter that you refuse to help. Victor will help."

"Will he? Kind of him. I thought you were going to the border to marry, however?"

"It doesn't matter when we marry so long as we marry," said Sherlock with a care less wave of his hand.

"What happens if, whilst you and Victor Trevor are on your adventure, you meet your aunt?"

Sherlock considered this possibility for several minutes. Then he shrugged, "It shouldn't take long for us to marry. As soon as it's finished we'll set out to investigate."

The corner of John's mouth twitched suspiciously but he remained impassive. He cleared his throat and asked, "Do you think that Trevor will want to go on an adventure immediately after marrying?"

"Of course he will," answered Sherlock promptly. Then his brow wrinkled and he asked, hesitantly, "Won't he?"

John regretted causing the worry on Sherlock's face. It had not been his intention to worry Sherlock. Well, it had not been his sole intention. He was not certain he knew what his intention had been in the first place. He said, "Would you wish to marry someone who wouldn't enjoy an adventure? If he is the man that you believe him to be, then he'll think it a grand honeymoon."

Sherlock did not respond although his brow did clear, which John thought was response enough. Then Sherlock sat upright and stared at John. John raised his brows expectantly, but kept his silence so Sherlock would speak first. It was several very silent minutes later that Sherlock finally deigned to speak. "You knew the victim. The murder victim, I mean. How?"

John returned Sherlock gaze unflinchingly. He said, with very little emotion, "He is - was, I should say, the brother of the woman I was considering marrying." A casual observer would have thought John was unmoved by the murder of his potential brother-in-law. Sherlock, however, was not a casual observer, so he noticed John's fisted hand and the tick in his jaw.

Sherlock clasped his hands in his lap as he digested this information. It had not occurred to him that the connection would be so close. He had thought that perhaps Morstan was an acquaintance of John's, of course, perhaps one of the army crowd John spent so much time with. Staring down at his hands Sherlock asked, "Do you - want to leave? To... comfort the Morstans?"

"Leave you before our adventure has finished? I think not. How could I leave you unprotected?"

Sherlock looked up at that, his face dark with annoyance. "I am perfectly capable of protecting myself! Anyway, I only thought that you might want to comfort your fiancee."

""She is not my fiancee," reminded John. "I left with you before I could propose."

Sherlock's hands tw itched in his lap. "I know. It was only that I thought you would want to comfort her. You  will  propose to her, of course. Once this adventure is finished. It must be - I would think at least, that it would be, er, tragic for her."

"William."

"You needn't worry about me," continued Sherlock. He was speaking too quickly to hear John say his name. "I was supposed to travel alone all along. That was my plan from the beginning and Bristol is not that far away as it is. The situation must be distressing for you in any matter."

"William."

"You must have known Mr. Morstan. If you wanted I could investigate his murder for you. I am very clever. I'm certain that I could find out who the murderer was, if you wished. Well, of course you wish for the murderer to be caught. Why shouldn't you? I only meant"-

"Sherlock."

Hearing that name softly spoken from John after being 'William' for so long, very nearly caused Sherlock to panic. It was stupid of him, he knew, because there was no reason for it to be so shocking. After all he had used John's name any number of times. It had not been proper, but it seemed fitting considering the rest of the impropriety. Why shouldn't John use that name in the confines of their vehicle? Still, the word seemed foreign sounding from John's mouth. Almost as though it was another word entirely. It was also a reminder of the Truth and near absurdity of their relationship.

Sherlock met John's eyes, questioning. John smiled, soft and reassuring, and said, "I am quite happy to finish  the journey with you."

Sherlock stared in surprise. Of course he knew that John longed for adventure, that much was obvious, but he had added the 'with you' at the end. It contributed to Sherlock's suspicion that John liked him, might consider him a friend. Sherlock looked away and shifted in his seat, uncertain and uncomfortable. "Oh. Well... yes. Good."

"Yes," said John. Sherlock did not bother to even respond to the amusement lacing John's voice. He kept his eyes firmly on the window. After a while John placed a traveling table in between them and said, "I bought these for an outrageous price from the landlord." Sherlock saw John take out the deck of grimy playing cards with a flourish. "I thought we could amuse ourselves with them for a time."

Sherlock brighten ed at the idea. "Oh excellent. You're a gambling man and the two of us are wealthy enough to be able to make interesting wagers."

John pursed his lips but there was a smile in his eyes as he murmured, "Have you no decency?"

"No. None at all. Shuffle the deck, if you please."


	12. Chapter Twelve

 

 

Whilst they gambled it was obvious that Sherlock was still at least partially preoccupied  with the murder and the suspect betas. John did not mind though; he was preoccupied as well. The news of Michael Morstan's murder had come as a considerable shock to John. He was not naive enough to think that his rushed and unannounced leave from town did not make him look suspect as well. He would wager that if Gregson had known to whom she spoke then he and Sherlock would have been taken back to London.

Sherlock allowed gambling to divert him for far longer than John had expected. The appeal of gambling for Sherlock, in John's opinion, was that he was determined to thoroughly beat John because of John's gambling reputation. Even with all of Sherlock's cleverness, John still won the majority of the games. Eventually Sherlock announced that he had had enough of games and took to pouting. John watched him, momentarily diverted himself, before turning his mind back to the murder.

John had no better idea than anyone else why someone would go to the bother of murdering Michael Morstan. He had been an unpleasant fellow, to be sure, but murder seemed unnecessary. John also had little idea how to clear his name of suspicion. Telling the truth about why John had left Town was impossible f or many reasons, not the least of which was that the truth sounded like an impossibility. John glanced at Sherlock and considered the damage to Sherlock's reputation if the truth ever were revealed.

Suppressing a shudder John acknowledged, for the dozenth time, that the truth was out of the question. It did not matter in any case; there was little he could do about a murder investigation from Bristol. Although, being a suspect for murder made his plans - hopes, really, for the immediate future rather difficult. More difficult, considering he still had to finish the Victor Trevor nonsense.

Late in the afternoon Sherlock, suffering from boredom and refusing another game of cards, perked up suddenly. He watched the landscape through the carriage window for nearly twenty minutes in silence. John left him to his musings. It had been many years since Sherlock had been home, so it seemed courteous . Eventually he turned to John,  bright  eyed and grinning wildly. Sherlock spoke at length about the  country side and his childhood, all of them painting Sherlock as a willful imp and too clever from the beginning.

John noted that Victor Trevor featured prominently in these stories. However, John could not tell if Sherlock realised the type of boy these stories painted of Victor Trevor. John thought Sherlock remembered Victor as a slightly older alpha who had been delighted by Sherlock's intelligence and sought out adventures with Sherlock. To a certain extent John supposed that was true, but he also thought that wasn't quite  the boy  Sherlock had actually known.

In fact John thought certain of the anecdotes cast Victor Trevor in the light of a conservative alpha, who had liked Sherlock and had thus tried to reign in his tendency towards maiming himself. The more Sherlock spoke of Victor Trevor the more convinced John became that the little idiot would attempt to challenge John to a duel. It would be annoying trying to side-step a duel with someone younger and significantly less experienced who thought himself equal to the task. In some ways it was reassuring to know that Victor cared for Sherlock enough to help him. Mostly John thought Sherlock and Victor  would be a mismatched marriage.

Finally Sherlock asked, "Are we staying at Hudson's Inn?"

John raised his brows and said, "I believe so. It was the Inn that was suggested the last time we stopped. You remember an Inn from when you were twelve?"

"I remember the landlady," answered Sherlock. He pressed his hands together thoughtfully. "Her husband was arrested and set to be hanged so she asked for my help."

"You stopped her husband from being hanged?" John asked incredulously.

"Hmm? No. I insured it."

"You... at twelve? The landlady asked for your help when you were twelve?"

"I was very clever. Even then," said Sherlock firmly.

"I would never doubt that. I am more surprised by the fact that the landlady asked for your help."

Sherlock glanced at John darkly and grudgingly admitted, "When her husband was arrested for murder and she feared that he wouldn't be hanged, I decided to help. Mrs. Hudson likes me very much."

Sherlock returned his attention to the landscape but John was not fooled. He grinned, "That was generous of you." Sherlock said nothing so John asked, "Do you think that Mrs. Hudson will recognize you?"

"Well," replied Sherlock slowly, "I _am_ taller and thinner than I was at twelve. Also my hair... well, she's used to seeing me dressed as an omega. I don't see how she would."

John tapped a finger against his knee thoughtfully. "We can hope. Still, I think it might be useful to keep you hidden from her for the time being."

Sherlock turned away from the window again to frown at John. "I  _like_ Mrs. Hudson."

"It wouldn't do for her to accidentally give our game away."

"Mrs. Hudson would never do that. She's clever enough to know better."

"Your reunion should probably be in private. Just so that we can be certain."

Sherlock frowned at him for several moments before shrugging. "Fine. I don't understand why it concerns you, though."

"No," agreed John, resigned. "I don't imagine you do. Tell me, have you considered how you're going to contact Victor Trevor when we reach Hudson's Inn?"

"I am going to pay him a visit, of course. I suppose I  _should_ say hello to his parents as well."

John watched Sherlock closely for several minutes before deciding this was naivety and not an attempt at drollness. Patiently John said, "You want to go to the Trevor estate whilst you are dressed as an alpha? I would think that would be shocking for the Trevors."

"Why should it be?"

"For the same reason we want your reunion with Mrs. Hudson to be private. Perhaps we could persuade Mrs. Hudson to help us send a message to the Trevor estate. She must have stable hands we could send. If they give the note to a trustworthy stable hand of the Trevor's then they could give it to Victor Trevor. Does Trevor ride?"

"I believe so. He certainly used to when we were young."

"Excellent."

"Yes. You were very clever," said Sherlock warmly. "Of course, Victor does visit Mrs. Hudson's Inn every morning to fetch the London papers for his mother." John sighed, annoyed Sherlock had let him stew over a plan when there was such an easy solution. Sherlock continued, "They are all at least a fortnight  old, but Mrs. Trevor does have an efficient system in place."

"Fine. Then we will wait one more night and you can meet with Victor Trevor tomorrow morning."

"That does seem like a better plan."

"You infuriate me," said John, smiling at him all the same.

Sherlock grinned without responding. He turned his attention back to the scenery, watching silently as it passed. John had little interest in the countryside, so he simply watched Sherlock. Sherlock seemed terribly interested in everything outside their carriage. John thought this was an odd occurrence for Sherlock, but coming home after years away must be a wonderful experience. This was probably Sherlock's first time home since his parents had died.

The country seemed an odd place for Sherlock and all of his energy. It also seemed a difficult place for Sherlock to pursue his crime hobby. Sherlock belonged in London, working with his Bow Street Runner friend. It was hardly appropriate behavior for an omega, but it suited Sherlock. John's mother and sister would be appalled by Sherlock's hobby. Harry could be contrary in that regard. 

John was growing wary of his constraints,  though. He knew his responsibility and would never abandon his family properties or the people in his employ. He did not want his cousin to inherit either. Putting aside things he desired, military career and medicine, was making him a martyr. He had always hated martyrs. If Harry wanted to be belle of society, and drink excessively, and have an affair with her maid then that was her own business. Her behavior hardly affected  his reputation, but his would  affect  her.

John rather thought he was tired of society. He would gladly become an eccentric, only invited to parties for his family name and wealth, if it meant he could do something that made him happy. Sherlock had wild schemes, caused chaos, chased after chaos, tarnished John's reputation, had no thought to his own reputation, and had a dozen hobbies that were inappropriate for any member of the  ton.  John liked Sherlock, not despite these things or even because of these things. He simply enjoyed Sherlock. Their journey might have any number of outcomes, some more favorable than others, but John rather hoped that whichever one happened Sherlock would allow him to assist with the cases. At least occasionally. 

"There it is!" Sherlock cried, unexpectedly. He turned to find John watching him and hesitated. After a moment he sad, "Mrs. Hudson's Inn. It's here."

John smiled faintly and said, "Good. I would like to stretch my legs. Remember to stay in the carriage until I hire a private parlour and smuggle you inside. Then you can become reacquainted with your Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock pouted a bit, but did not argue.

When the carriage came to a stop John alighted and was relieved to see that the Inn, though small, seemed well enough. An older woman met him at the door and smiled brightly. "Hello! What are you doing here, then."

John paused, wondering for a moment if he had met her before. She continued to smile at him pleasantly, but vaguely, so he concluded that she was simply overly familiar with everyone. He tried for a polite smile, but he wasn't sure if he quite succeeded. "I would like two rooms for my companion and I, as well as a private parlour ."

"Would you?" She laughed a bit and said, "We don't normally have people as fine as you stay. The Trevor's are good people, of course, but they're country squires. Bit different from you, I'd say. They never stay here, why would they, but they live in the area. You're welcome to stay here, of course. I have two rooms available, if you'll be needing it."

John's brows furrowed. "Of course I'll be needing two," said a bit shortly.

"Well, that's fine, of course. I've learned in my life that it's best not to judge people." John clenched his fist as he realised that Mrs. Hudson, for he assumed this woman was the landlady, perhaps did not quite understand the relationship between him and his companion. "Is your companion going to leave the carriage?"

"Presently. Shall I come inside so we may complete our business?"

"If you like," agreed Mrs. Hudson pleasantly. She turned but said, "I suppose I should ask who you are. I can't think what yourself is doing in this part of the country. Are you visiting the Trevor's? I think that's strange, since you are not staying with them. Young Mr. Trevor is not back from his trip either, so it's all the stranger.

"Mr. Trevor is not at home?"

"No. He went of with school friends for a few weeks. I think he even possibly went to London for a few days. But, then, you know how kitchen maids are, they aren't to be trusted. I remember when I was a kitchen maid." Mrs. Hudson laughed, "Oh the lies I told!" John was diverted enough to wonder if it was something about Bristol that made people tell falsehoods. "It was a great fun. Are you here to see the Trevor's, then?"

"Not quite. Do you know when Mr. Trevor plans to return?"

"No. I should think soon enough though. He's been gone for most of the month and I don't think the Mesdames Trevor would like him to be gone for so long. They dote on him. Shall I show you to the parlour? Oh! I'm the landlady, by the by, Mrs. Hudson."

"Pleasure. I am Watson. Thank you." John entered the small parlour and glanced around. There was not much to the room actually, but it was a good deal cleaner than some parlours he had seen. "This will do. Thank you. Shall I order dinner now?"

Nearly twenty minutes had passed before John was able to return to the carriage. He was unsurprised to find that Sherlock was no longer in the carriage. It was a surprise to find Sherlock underneath the carriage. John glanced at the driver, waiting impatiently to take to the carriage to the stables, but only received a careless shrug in response. 

"What are you doing?"

"Studying the axles. I thought I might figure out why the carriage bounces so and fix it." Sherlock turned his head to look accusingly at John. "You were gone a very long time."

"Mrs. Hudson enjoys conversation. Hurry out of there now, if you please. Mrs. Hudson is fetching us dinner and I would like for us to be back in the parlour before her return."

John watched as Sherlock squirmed out, then stood and dusted himself off. Then he, still mostly covered in dust, drew himself up and said, "Come on then." John smirked, but followed.

It was simple enough to sneak Sherlock into the Inn undetected. The most difficult part of the endeavor was keeping Sherlock focused. He was much more interested in studying the Inn and noting the changes that the years had caused. When the pair finally were safely ensconced in the parlour Sherlock skulked about the room, examining every object there. He seemed annoyed that Mrs. Hudson had dusted the room, and was in the midst of lecturing John about the importance, the elegance indeed, of dust when the door opened. 

"Woo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully as she entered. "I brought a light something for you to nibble on before"-

Mrs. Hudson spotted Sherlock across the room and cut herself off. The two stared at each other for several minutes. Sherlock's body was tense and he seemed uncertain what he should say or do. Mrs. Hudson's eyes misted and she finally said, "Oh, Sherlock ." 

 


End file.
